Past Imperfect, Present Continuous
by terminallypretty
Summary: It has been five years since the end of the war. Three years ago, Penelo dropped off the face of Ivalice, disappearing without a trace. Balthier has never forgotten his youngest former compatriot and her boundless zest for life, and, absent any satisfactory answers regarding her whereabouts, he elects to go in search of her.
1. Chapter 1

_Balthier had never been so cold in the whole of his life. But the Paramina Rift boasted some of the harshest climes in all of Ivalice, and he had ever been wont to seek out warmer locales, preferring the temperate warmth of Balfonheim or the lush humidity of the Golmore Jungle to the frigid, thin air that graced the valley surrounding Mt. Bur-Omisace. Even the Sands, the vast deserts surrounding Rabanastre on all sides, would have been preferable to the cold that seemed to seep into his bones, shriveling joints and tendons until they screamed in agony._

 _He had not been alone in his misery. Blue lips and frostbitten fingertips abounded. Fran's ears had frozen over, their fur matted and stiff. Grainy crystals of ice collected upon armor, creating swirling fractal patterns that he might have found beautiful had he not been just so bloody freezing._

 _Ashe shielded her eyes from the spray of snow and sleet that drifted down the valley. Basch had given up all pretense of stalwart forbearance, holding his massive shield like a debutante would a parasol. Vaan had surreptitiously stuck himself in Fran's wake, letting her take the brunt of the storm. Penelo merely frolicked._

 _Insulated by the thick leather of her jumpsuit, she was vastly unaffected by the temperature. Of course, her lips had gone blue and feathery threads of ice had clumped upon her lashes, the added weight giving her eyes a rather slumberous appearance - but the brisk wind had burnished her cheeks with pink, and her hair was rather charmingly decorated with a fine layer of snow. Her hair was so pale that the snow blended somewhat, except for those bright sparkling glints in the light whenever she moved, as though she'd been showered in diamonds._

 _She looked like a damned snow fairy, her eyes lustrous and vivid against the stark white backdrop of the snowdrifts. Though the bitter wind had to sting her face she didn't give it any consideration. Not when there were snow flurries to catch on her tongue, a perpetual grin lingering at the corners of her mouth. Her breath fogged in the air with each attempt; she missed a particularly large flake that landed instead upon the tip of her nose and went briefly cross-eyed as she stared at it until it melted at last._

 _An outcropping in the massive rock walls provided shelter against the wind; everyone but Penelo had hurried beneath it, eager to set up camp and avoid the glacial air._

 _"Penelo." Ashe's voice was a harsh, dry croak - their water had frozen solid, and none of them had had anything to drink for hours. "Haven't you any gloves? Your fingers look rather frozen."_

 _"What would I need gloves for?" Penelo asked absently, catching a snowflake on the pad of her index finger. "No call for them in Rabanastre."_

 _Balthier chided, "In the absence of a clear direction, it's wise to pack for all climates."_

 _A careless shrug; she had dropped to her knees, scooping up handfuls of the pristine, fluffy snow, letting it drift through her fingers. "It's just like sand, but it's just the opposite of it. Like a frozen desert."_

 _With the way the snow continued to pile up, reminiscent of dunes, Balthier could certainly understand why she thought so._

 _Basch had strung up a couple of hides, further insulating their temporary shelter from snow and wind. Fran had cast a couple down upon the ground as well, so that they would not be laying straight upon hard, cold stone._

 _Vaan scratched at the nape of his neck, shaking his head at the pile of tinder he'd bundled up beneath a neatly stacked pile of sticks. "Come on, Pen. We have to have a fire, and you've got the flint."_

 _Penelo's face crumpled into a pout, but she came at last, slinging her bag into Vaan's waiting hands as she joined the rest of them in the makeshift shelter. They hadn't collected enough wood to allow for cooking; they would have to burn what they had sparingly and keep the pelts closed to hold in the warmth, relying on dry rations for nourishment, and leaving their canteens close to the fire in the hopes of melting the ice into drinkable water._

 _And yet Penelo dropped onto her belly, lifting the bottom edge of one of the hides to peek out at the wintery landscape._

 _"For the gods' sake," Balthier muttered irritably. "You'd think you'd never seen snow before."_

 _"I haven't," she said. "Never been out of Rabanastre. Well, except the Estersands once or twice, just down to the Outpost. But that was before the war." She'd slipped her fingers beneath the hide, drawing patterns in the snow that dusted the ground._

 _Somehow, her softly spoken reply made Balthier feel small and petty. Not that there'd been any censure in it to make him feel so - but it had simply never occurred to him that anyone might live their entire life in only one place, surrounded on all sides by walls forty feet high, unconquerable, inescapable. She might've read of snow in books, but today was the very first time she'd seen it, felt it, tasted it._

 _She saw it with new eyes, reveled in the arctic beauty of it - beauty to which he had long since become inured. For him, it was only an annoyance, but for her it was a fairytale, a memory she would hold in her heart forever._

 _Night fell softly and silently, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the Rift, bouncing off peaks and valleys, fluttering the hides and shoving skirls of snow beneath the edges. And long after light had failed and the fire had been extinguished, Penelo had held out her hand, her fingers dancing with the flakes._

* * *

 _Royal City of Archades, Archadia  
Late Summer, 5 New Valendian (marked by the end of the Occuria's reign)_

Balthier woke abruptly, jerked out of the dream as he toppled from the bed onto the floor, his limbs arranged in an ungainly sprawl. As he ever seemed to, whenever Fran got it into her head that he had been asleep longer than he ought, and sought to rectify that in her own manner. Which involved not an alarm or a gentle nudge, but rather planting her heel firmly on his back and shoving with all of her might. And, as a viera, she could manage rather a lot of it.

At some point the impression of her spiked heel on the base of his spine was bound to become a permanent indentation.

He floundered upwards from beneath a swath of sheets and blankets, striving for a glare. "Blast it, Fran—that's done it. I'm calling round to have locks put on my door. Three of them, at the very least."

Impassively, she watched him wrestle away the tangled covers, declining to dignify his grumbled assertion with a response. She had never shown the least unease - or even interest - in his state of undress, and they'd been together too many years for him to have retained any missishness where she was concerned. He rather thought she'd appointed herself his guardian of sorts, and the early years of their relationship had been all exuberance on his part and exasperation on hers.

She'd plucked him out of bar fights and beds that were not his own, even from jail a time or two...or seven. She'd trained him up and taught him her trade. She'd been both mentor and friend, and even a mother of sorts, whenever his actions had merited being called out on the carpet. And they had; he'd been treated to the sharp side of her tongue more times than he could count, and she'd kept it honed to a razor edge, taking strips out of his hide.

Fran studied her claws, having graciously averted her eyes while he struggled into a pair of pants and sought out a shirt from the depths of his wardrobe. "You've funds enough to last you the rest of your life in perfect comfort," she remarked. "Perhaps you ought to invest in a timepiece."

"No need," he said, waving vaguely with one hand while attempting to work the buttons of his shirt with the other. "Time is arbitrary and meaningless. One only requires a watch when one has an obligation to which one must attend in a timely manner."

Fran had never been one to wear her emotions openly, but he suspected she was the slightest bit annoyed. At least she ever seemed to be when he made broad pronouncements of that nature - still, she could not argue the fact of it. Beholden to no one, their days were spent in sailing the skies, traveling in no particular hurry unless they happened to be eluding the authorities.

Time passed, and the days ran together, and there was no point in marking either them or the hours that comprised them. Until they caught wind of a new treasure to liberate, they could drift through the onward march of time with naught but a few new lines etched into their faces to account for the pleasure.

Out of habit, he asked, "Any news?"

Fran shook her head, her ash-white hair swishing down her back. "Not since last you asked. A whole week, this time. I confess I am torn: am I to be proud that you are moving on, or am I to be concerned that you are instead making a concerted effort _not_ to ask?"

Rather than respond, Balthier snagged the gun belt wrapped haphazardly around the bed post, slinging it over his hips to belt it. Fran gave a beleaguered sigh, shouldering away from the door.

"Pick a new job," she suggested. "Anything, anywhere - you have only to choose. I weary of this wretched idleness."

Balthier seized his guns from the drawer in which he had stashed them the night before, shoving them into their holsters. "I've scarcely managed a day of idleness since my sixteenth year. Perhaps I feel deserving of a bit of a sabbatical. It's not every lifetime that one overthrows tyrannical gods."

An inelegant snort met his blithe declaration, a sure sign he'd earned Fran's censure. "We've seen five summers since then. I have them to spare, but you cannot say the same. Will you waste your short life in indolence?"

He glanced up, somewhat aggrieved to note that thus far, _his_ had been the only face to have been marked by the passage of time. Fran would be ninety come winter, still young by her species' standards. Between the two of them, he would appear Fran's senior.

But she was sensitive to the differences in their species, had known many humes in her lifetime, and had lost most to the ravages of time and old age. A life spent in idleness was a life wasted in her opinion, and doubly so a hume life which would gutter out in a fraction of the time hers would. Fran was something of an anomaly to her kind; though she had long since perfected the art of appearing unburdened by a surfeit of emotion, her actions seldom matched the placid face she showed the world. She had never been content to seclude herself away in the viera villages; she had exiled herself from the rest of her kind, stirring up trouble the world over and meddling more or less constantly in hume affairs.

It had taken him years to understand it, but he had eventually concluded that she envied them their short, meaningful lives, whereas she searched constantly for meaning to hers and yet it eluded her. Thus she found wasted potential unbearable, unforgivable, unconscionable.

Which, of course, meant that she would continually plague him until she felt that he had taken his life in hand once more.

He supposed he ought to resent her interference. Occasionally Fran's chiding frayed his nerves, but he was ever aware that, for the most part, she did so only when the situation merited it. Which merely served to compound his guilt, knowing that she'd been chomping at the bit for weeks—months, even—waiting around for him to get off his arse and _do_ something.

They were partners; it wasn't fair of him to keep her languishing here, wanting for a bit of adventure. But she would remain nonetheless, because she had taken him on some thirteen years before, had made the spur-of-the-moment decision to raise him up from a spoiled, feckless youth, and would not see the years she had invested in him wasted.

He owed her better than that.

Still, the thought that had plagued him for the past three years gnawed at the back of his brain, impossible to ignore. _Where had she gone_?

As if she had read his mind, Fran murmured, "She is bound to resurface eventually."

Incredulous, he whirled to face her. "Three years, Fran— _three years!_ "

She shrugged. "Ashelia was dead for two."

But Penelo was not Ashelia, not a princess-in-exile, not a rebel queen hidden away for her own protection. She had no need to hide; there was no enemy that wished her dead. And yet she had dropped off the face of Ivalice three years prior, and no one seemed to have a bloody clue where she had gone. She had just...disappeared. Without a word, without a trace. And though he'd sent countless investigators to run her aground, they had all turned up precisely no leads. Which meant she was either dead...or that she did not wish to be found.

Fran had not approved of the tabs that he had kept on Penelo, had called it tantamount to spying. She had even taken subtle jabs at him, all but accusing him of nurturing a _tendre_ for the girl, which was ridiculous.

Mostly ridiculous, at least. It _might_ have just had the slightest smidgeon of truth. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

But every once in a while, Fran would cast him that searching look, as if she could see into his soul, as if she _knew_ that he was still plagued with dreams, with memories that stuck in his brain, unshakeable. And then she would shake her head with just a shade of a wry grin, as if she thought him a lost cause.

He had played off his concern as professional interest, as Vaan and Penelo had taken to pirating within a few months of Ashe's coronation, and it was always wise to keep abreast of the doings of one's competition. Fran had not been fooled, but then she seldom was. And for the most part, she kept her peace.

"Rozarria, then," Fran suggested, her scarlet eyes locked upon his face.

Balthier scrutinized her face in a futile attempt to discern if there was some judgment in her words. "Rozarria?"

The slightest inclination of her head. "Rumors of an ancient tomb hidden filled with treasure in the jungles to the northeast abound. And the _Galbana_ has been seen in the area."

The _Galbana_ was Vaan's ship, and it had once housed Penelo, too. Though she'd been absent in Vaan's life these past three years—or so claimed what little intel that Balthier had managed to glean—he still might know something of her whereabouts. It was as good a chance as any.

It was the not knowing that was the worst. It was the imaginings his mind tormented him with in the absence of certainty that plagued him so. If he could simply get an answer, he would be whole once more, beset no longer by shades of the past.

"And you wish to go to Rozarria in search of this treasure?" he asked.

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "Balthier, I wish to _go_ ," she said. No specific destination, objective unimportant.

And he wondered briefly if he hadn't been misattributing his own hesitance to her, if she hadn't been so much irritated with his lack of direction but with his indecision. She only wanted to go—she didn't care where they went, what their purpose. She would accompany him no matter how ill-considered she thought his aim. She didn't care what he did, so long as he _did_ something.

Still, he said, "If Vaan is on the hunt for that tomb, it is likely that our paths shall cross."

"We are two to his one," she replied. "Delaying him ought not present a problem." A brief pause. "Nor should convincing him to part with what information he might possess."

His confirmation. He smothered a grin. "Then chart us a course, and I shall go provisioning."

* * *

Given that they had been stagnating in Archades for the better part of a month, their stores had been desperately depleted. Not that it had been of any particular concern of Balthier's; who would need bother themselves with the stock of potions and ethers within the city? And with a plethora of restaurants and taverns to choose from, replenishing the kitchen stock was hardly at the top of his list.

Thus it was the work of an entire afternoon to manage all the things he hadn't bothered with in some time. By the time they were in the air, dusk was falling over the horizon, streaking the sky in shadowed purple. They'd be flying through the night, most likely, which suited Balthier just fine, as they very first modification he'd made to the _Strahl_ \- after Larsa had officially gifted it to him as recompense for his efforts in service to the crown - had been a top of the line autopilot module. Not that he didn't enjoy flying her himself, but it did come in handy on particularly long voyages. High in the atmosphere, thousands of feet above even the tallest treetops, there were no obstacles to dodge, nothing to concentrate on except the endless expanse of sky.

Fran had retired to her room shortly after ten, but Balthier had lingered on the deck, seated in his captain's chair, his boots propped upon the navigation console and his hands folded behind his head. Before him stretched the night sky in its infinite, inky blackness, peppered with thousands of stars, glinting coldly in the darkness of space.

Somehow their distant glimmer was nostalgic, like threads of a memory drifting just out of reach, producing a melancholy ache in his chest, a nameless longing for a time that had come and gone and had left only ghosts and shadows in its wake.

It was long minutes before he traced the sensation to its origin, dissecting the feeling down to its components, analyzing the cross-sections of the glowing stars and comparing them against the memories tucked away in his head.

And still the stars glittered brightly, accusingly, as if to chastise him for misplacing the memory, for misplacing _everything_ , until at last, in the face of that frigid disapproval, he seized upon it.

They reminded him of snowflakes.


	2. Chapter 2

The sunrise that was just beginning to blossom over the horizon painted the distant mountains in soft pastels. A sea of trees stretched out for miles before them, swarming around the base and climbing halfway up the range before receding into craggy, snow-capped peaks. Beneath the _Strahl_ in flight, tall grasses gilded by the early sunlight swept and rolled in the wind, rippling like ocean waves.

Balthier had not spent much time within Rozarria's borders. It was a large territory–massive, really–and though it boasted its fair share of towns, those were mostly located along the coastline, with long stretches of unsettled land between them, and thousands of miles of rugged terrain so rarely traversed that even a small settlement would be unlikely. Even Dalmasca, with its vast deserts, had more frequent foot traffic, and therefore was peppered with tiny villages and outposts joined by well-trod paths, no more than a day's walk separating them. In Rozarria, it was easy to become lost – and those that did were rarely found.

With Fran at his side and the _Strahl_ for shelter and transportation, he didn't feel overly alarmed. But if they were planning a trek into the jungle, they would have to leave the safety of the _Strahl_. The densely packed jungle would preclude flying her within, and the lush canopy above would hide any sight of the tomb they sought.

So he and Fran would be forced to leave the _Strahl_ and proceed into the jungle on foot. But they'd likely wander aimlessly without some sort of direction, and that would never do – Balthier didn't care to leave such things to chance. First, they would need to track down Vaan and coerce what information they could out of him.

Balthier overrode the _Strahl's_ autopilot, kicking her back into manual and setting a minute adjustment to their course that would take them skimming along the edge of the Oenalian Sea. In all likelihood, Vaan would be found in one of the port cities. As Balthier figured it, he could eliminate many of the cities straight off; most would be too far south to suit Vaan's purposes. He would need to stock up his provisions and assemble a crew, both of which were far easier to do in the larger cities. If he were wise–and Balthier sincerely hoped that the last five years had matured the irritating youngster significantly–he would seek out a crew amongst those living closest to the jungle, those who might've ventured there before.

That narrowed down the choices considerably, bringing the options down to only a few cities. With the right inquiries made at the right places, Balthier was willing to bet he and Fran would have Vaan run aground by nightfall.

* * *

Hidden from view on the Oenalian Sea, the port city of Galina lay on an inlet, bordered on three sides by rolling hills that gradually faded into the eastern border of the mountain range marking the edge of Rozarria. Sheltered from the elements, the climate was on the whole temperate but burdened with a surfeit of morning fog which hung over the city until the sun finally deigned to burn it off around midday. It had no Aerodrome proper, for the fog that covered the city from nightfall to noonday made it difficult to direct an airship within the city for all but a few hours. Instead it had an unofficial skyport tucked into the hills on the western border of the city, where the sky could generally be counted upon to remain clear.

Galina was at the top of the list as far as Vaan's likely whereabouts went; the dense jungle began only a few miles west of the city's border, just past the ridge of mountains that jutted up in spiky peaks. If Vaan was looking for a guide into the jungle–and he would be a fool not to–then there could be no better city in which to recruit one.

Fran's delicate maneuvering brought them to hover just above the makeshift skyport, slowly easing down into a careful landing, settling the _Strahl_ expertly between a pair of nondescript cargo ships. She toggled switches and powered down the engines, her graceful fingers moving through the motions of shutting down the ship with a fluid, practiced flourish.

"You might inspect the other ships," she suggested mildly.

"Inspect the–" He lapsed into silence, momentarily nonplussed. Of _course_ –this wasn't an Aerodrome, with its private docks and tight security. This was simply an open-air dock; he could stroll along the lot and search for the _Galbana_. "Of course," he said. "I'll inspect them at once."

Fran disengaged the doors and extended the ramp, allowing him to slip out onto the lot as she gathered her things.

The lot was populated mostly by frigates and freighters; he was looking for something much smaller, much faster. He ducked between a longship and a cutter to emerge in the back row, searching the smaller ships docked there for the lettering etched upon the hull that would give him the name he sought.

He almost missed it. But the sun glinted off the tip of a wing just barely visible behind the body of a cruiser–a clipper class airship tucked away at the back of the lot, her body buffed to a gleaming shine. And there, upon the hull: _Galbana_ , emblazoned in silver paint.

A rush of primal satisfaction coursed through his veins; despite his overlong sabbatical rooted in a listless, inexplicable melancholy he had not been able to shake, his instincts remained sharp enough to run his quarry down in all haste.

The familiar crunch of Fran's boots upon the gravel had him whirling around, only barely smothering a triumphant smirk. "He's here," he said. "We've got him."

Fran arched a brow, and Balthier wondered if perhaps he hadn't been quite as adept at disguising his pleasure as he thought he had. But then, Fran had always possessed an uncanny ability to read people–humes in particular.

Rather than risk an untoward remark, Fran merely folded her arms over her chest and tilted her head. Finally, she said, "Galina is twice over again as large as Archades. It boasts a great many taverns and inns, in any one of which our young pirate might have taken refuge."

Balthier considered that grimly, stroking his thumb along his jaw in thought. "It's not outside of the realm of possibility that we might not cross paths with him before he leaves the city. Will you remain behind, or shall I?"

"Better that you should remain," Fran said. "Viera senses being what they are, I can track him more easily than you within the city." She touched the tip of her nose, a wordless reminder that she could sniff him out with relative ease.

"By all means." Balthier gestured to the dirt road leading down the hill into the city. "If you should find him, do bring him here."

Fran inclined her head gracefully. "I imagine you may have some questions to put to him that perhaps have little to do with the tomb we seek."

Though her tone was faintly chiding, Balthier merely raised her brows in mock innocence. "There's no such thing as irrelevant information," he said. "You taught me that."

Her lips quirked in a wry grin, just at the corners. "And if that information should concern Penelo, so much the better?"

"Quite. She, too, was once a rival of ours, if you'll recall. Best if we ascertain her whereabouts. For reconnaissance purposes, of course." He rolled up the cuffs of his shirt, settled against the _Galbana's_ hull for a long wait.

"Of course," Fran echoed lightly. "What will you do if you find her?"

Caught off-guard, Balthier floundered for a response. He had never gotten that far in his imaginings. He had only wanted to see her, to be certain she was safe. Dreams and memories had tormented him for so many years–that piquant little face, drawn in wonder, delighted with the whole world. He had been unaccountably desolated when they had parted company so abruptly, aggrieved to have found that she had taken with her all the light, leaving the world bland and grey. Somehow he had grown accustomed to vicariously viewing the world through her lens of innocence and awe.

He had not easily settled back into normality, a reality that now seemed bleak and grim in comparison.

"I don't know," he mused. "Do you know, Fran, I think that worries me a bit–I truly don't know."

Briskly, Fran turned on her heel. "It should worry you," she said over her shoulder as she stalked away. "For it worries me, as well."

* * *

The afternoon sun might've been scorching if not for the cool breeze blowing in off the inlet. Balthier stretched, checked the time, and then readjusted his position, folding his arms behind his head to cushion it from the heated metal of the _Galbana's_ hull.

He had been waiting perhaps three hours, watching the ships dock and sail away, ordering questions in his mind from most to least important to prepare for the inquisition he had in store for Vaan.

At the top of the list: Where the devil had Penelo run off to?

No, that would never do. The tomb–he and Fran were, ostensibly, on the trail of the treasure. Perhaps inquiries regarding Penelo could come third, or maybe fourth. Far enough down the list that he could make the question of her whereabouts seem less critical and more curious than anything else.

First, the treasure and its rumored location. Next, the likely validity of what information Vaan had managed to glean. _Then_ Balthier might remark upon Penelo's absence, probe the boy for an explanation.

Moments later, the crunch of gravel and irritable muttering alerted Balthier to someone's approach. _Two_ people–while the muttering was distinctly masculine, Fran's ears bobbed along over the prow of the cruiser. He jerked his pistol from its holster, leveling it at the end of the row, where she would soon emerge with her quarry.

Vaan was thrust suddenly into Balthier's line of sight, scowling as he rubbed at his ear. Balthier suspected Fran had, until recently, held the boy's ear in a tight pinch that Balthier himself knew only too well from his younger days.

He drew back the hammer of his pistol, the resounding click stilling Vaan's movements as he drew to a sudden halt.

"Going somewhere?" Balthier inquired blithely.

Vaan whirled to flee, but Fran had already rounded the corner, her arms folded as she silently shook her head in warning.

"Aw, hell," Vaan sighed. "Who called _you_ down on me? Last I checked, my bounty was only five hundred gil. You must've fallen on hard times if that's enough to tempt you."

Balthier scoffed. "Five hundred? And what are your crimes, then–jaywalking? I've yet to turn bounty hunter, and I certainly wouldn't do it for a measly five hundred. I'll reassess when you've earned yourself a respectable bounty."

Vaan bristled with indignation. "I'm just careful, is all," he protested. "Can't add to my bounty if they don't know I was ever there. What do _you_ do–leave a calling card?"

"Hardly. But over a long and illustrious career, we have acquired a certain reputation." Balthier shrugged. "The Queen and Emperor saw fit to cancel our bounties upon their ascension to their respective thrones. They might have meant well, but I was rather put out–it's decreased our notoriety drastically. I assure you, prior to that incident, we were worth significantly more than a pitiful _five hundred_."

"Balthier," Fran chided impatiently. "We've more important matters to attend to than talk of bounties."

Vaan glanced between the two of them, baffled. "If you're not here to drag me in, why _are_ you here?"

As Vaan no longer seemed to present a flight risk, Balthier tucked his weapon back into its holster and shouldered away from the _Galbana_ to stalk towards Vaan. As he came within reach, he reached out to snag the edge of Vaan's lapel, dragging the younger man close to snarl, "Where is Penelo?"

He heard Fran sigh, saw her out of the corner of his eye touching her palm to her forehead, shaking her head in consternation. _Damn_. It had just slipped out–he'd meant to shake the tomb's location out of Vaan, truly.

Vaan blinked and at last wrested himself out of Balthier's grip, sullenly straightening his jacket. "That's what _I'd_ like to know," he muttered. "What the hell d'you think I'm doing all the way out here, anyway? Enjoying the weather?"

Too late to retract his foolish question; Balthier could only forge ahead. "We had heard you were scouting a tomb–do you mean to say you are in fact searching for Penelo?"

Vaan gestured vaguely. "Oh, the tomb. Yeah, I'll get to it eventually. But I can't risk it alone, and I've been without a partner for three years since Penelo ran off to get married."

The breath whooshed from Balthier's lungs as if he'd been punched in the gut. " _Married_?"

Vaan's brows drew together; he surveyed Balthier's horrified face with frank interest. "Yeah, to some Archadian asshole. I never liked him–shady sort, if you ask me. Pen and I had a falling out here in Galina, and she went home with him to Rabanastre. Of course, when I heard about the tomb, I figured it was the perfect excuse to catch up with her. But apparently she never made it back to Rabanastre at all. She's been missing since we cut ties." He dragged a hand through his disheveled sandy hair, blowing out a frustrated breath. "My intel says she never made it out of Rozarria."

"And since your search began, you've discovered...?"

"Nothing. It's like she's dropped off the face of the world." Vaan's eyes narrowed. "Why should _you_ care? We've seen hide nor hair of you two in a handful of years."

But Balthier had seen _them_ –briefly, in the eaves of the warehouse as they'd whooped and hollered the day he'd stolen back the _Strahl_. He and Fran had been assumed dead for the better part of a year; he had been oddly charmed to see the chagrin at finding the _Strahl_ gone melt into abject joy as Penelo had eagerly read the note he'd left hanging in its place. She had shrieked for Vaan, and they had laughed and shouted and bounced around like a pair of overgrown children–until Penelo's merriment had given way finally to a flood of tears, as she threw her arms around Vaan and wept with relief.

"We, too, had heard of Penelo's disappearance." Far sooner than Vaan had, it seemed. "Owing to our history, we thought to aid in her recovery–" he ignored Fran's snort disguised as a cough "–and lend our assistance."

"By dragging me out of a tavern by my ear?" Vaan snapped with a glare in Fran's direction. " _That's_ what you call help?"

"Until now, you were our only lead." Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose. "How could you let her run off? What do you know about the man she left with?"

"I couldn't exactly stopher, now, could I? She was of age; she wanted to go with him." Vaan heaved a sigh. "Never knew too much about him. His name was Raen, and he had a shifty look about him."

"And Penelo never noticed his...shiftiness?"

"Penelo always tries to see the best in everyone. You'd think being a street kid would've beaten it out of her, but she's still a shit judge of character." Vaan cast a speaking glance at Balthier. "She liked _you_ well enough, after all."

Balthier had never particularly noticed that; she had always seemed to treat everyone to the same effervescent, ever-present friendliness. But clearly whatever Vaan had seen in it was enough to merit that suspicious look.

He cleared his throat and said, "Suppose we work together, then. With two ships we can make short work of it."

Vaan shrugged, scratched at the back of his neck. "I've covered the southern border already," he said. "Been working my way north for a solid month, hitting every town on the map. I can't help but think she either doesn't want to be found, or..." He let the unfinished thought speak for itself.

"She's _not_ dead," Balthier snapped.

"Yeah, you think so?" Vaan fired back. " _Ashe_ hasn't heard from her. _Larsa_ hasn't heard from her. _Basch_ hasn't heard from her." He ticked them off on his fingers. "I can't find a _single_ person who's so much as seen her from a distance in _three years_."

"So she doesn't want to be found," Balthier retorted. "I've never let that stop me from tracking someone down, and I don't intend to begin now. Are you in? Or must I simply extend your regrets to Penelo when I find her?" He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm not altogether certain she'll be eager to kiss and make up with you when she learns you gave up so easily. With _me_ , on the other hand..."

Though he had made the intimation simply to goad Vaan into compliance, Balthier had not expected quite the vitriol that resulted. Vaan's spine snapped straight with outrage; he pulled back his fist and growled, "You son of a–"

Fran caught his fist before it could fly, curling her claws around his arm to press it back down. "You humes, so quick to anger and so much given to violence." She sniffed disdainfully. "Let us not come to blows unnecessarily. It bodes ill for an alliance."

Vaan shrugged off Fran's hold and speared Balthier with a vengeful glare. "Maybe I couldn't save her from Raen, but I'm sure as hell not going to leave her to _you_ ," he said."I never liked the way you looked at her."

Baffled, Balthier canted his head one side. "And how did I look at her?" he inquired, genuinely curious.

"Like you were a wolf and she was a fluffy little bunny," Vaan spat. "Like you'd pounce on her, given half a chance."

Balthier's brows lifted in astonishment. He risked an inquisitive glance at Fran, but she only shrugged, her face arranged in that practiced neutrality she had long since perfected. Strange that she had not actually denied the charge. Unsettling, really.

He brushed off the irritation that Fran's disloyalty had caused, cleared his throat and said, "You were mistaken. I assure you, I have no nefarious intentions where Penelo is concerned."

Vaan scoffed, rolling his eyes in patent disbelief. He shoved one hand in his pants pocket, and raked his free hand through his shaggy hair. "You think I'm stupid or something? I _know_ you; you can't pull one over on me with that bullshit." His voice lowered to a menacing growl. "Let's just be clear. You'll keep your filthy hands to yourself."

Balthier had never been one to follow orders from anyone–save Fran, when the situation merited it–and was more than a little irked at Vaan's disinclination to take him at his word. Rather than attempting to pacify the volatile boy, he opted instead to fuel Vaan's rage yet further. "If you truly believe me to be a threat to her, well...you had better hope that _you_ get to her first."

With an inarticulate sound of rage, Vaan launched himself again at Balthier. Fran heaved a sigh, snagged Vaan by the neck of his vest, and dragged him back. With a long-suffering look aimed at Balthier, she inquired, "Was that necessary?"

"No. But it _was_ fun." He couldn't help himself, really. Vaan was simply too easy to provoke. If the boy intended to cast out unjust accusations, he could damn well take whatever Balthier cared to dish out in return. "Let him go, Fran. He knows he's better off with us than against us."

Against her better judgment, Fran released Vaan even as he struggled in her hold. Propelled forward by the momentum of his formerly futile efforts to dislodge himself from Fran's grip, he swung wildly at Balthier, who easily blocked the reckless attack. He took advantage of Vaan's surprise to maneuver himself out of the way, twisted Vaan's wrist behind his back, shoved the younger man's face against the hot metal of the _Galbana's_ hull, and pressed hard enough for the strain on his wrist to make Vaan yelp in pain.

"You ought to know better than that," Balthier chided. "Have you learned nothing in the years that have passed? Never let yourself be goaded into an emotional response."

" _Get. Off._ " Vaan snarled the words, but they were garbled, forced out between clenched teeth and a cheek that was still firmly shoved against the ship.

Balthier tugged on Vaan's wrist, eliciting a hissed expletive. "When I can be reasonably certain that you won't attempt any further equally idiotic attacks," he said. "Surely you must see the merit in allying ourselves with one another. The _Strahl's_ faster by far than the _Galbana_ ; we can cover ground more quickly."

"I don't _need_ your help!" Vaan snapped.

Balthier pressed on Vaan's captured wrist until the younger man fell silent, breath hissing through his teeth as he breathed through the pain. " _You_ might not. Penelo, on the other hand, very well _might_. Will you hold onto your pride at the expense of her safety?" He leaned in and applied more pressure, wrenching Vaan's wrist higher.

"Okay! _Okay,_ " Vaan howled. "Gods, just let go already!"

Balthier held for a moment longer, until Fran huffed and said, " _Balthier_. I believe you have made your point clear."

Reluctantly, Balthier released his hold on Vaan and stepped back a pace, his hand going unerringly to the handle of his pistol in the event a quick draw might be required. But Vaan only groaned and flopped around to brace his back against the hull of the _Galbana_ as he gingerly flexed his aching hand, trying to restore feeling to it.

"Then we're in agreement," Balthier said. "Fran, you'll accompany Vaan aboard the _Galbana._ "

" _What_? No–I don't need a babysitter," Vaan replied.

Balthier clenched his teeth against an unwise retort and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a quick, sharp exhalation, he gritted out, "The _Strahl_ has a significant speed advantage on the _Galbana_. Fran's heightened senses will aid in mitigating the _Galbana's_ shortcomings. We'll conduct our search more efficiently if she travels with you rather than me."

"There's nothing wrong with my ship!" Vaan protested.

Fran folded her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the side as she scrutinized the _Galbana_. "She's a base model," she said. "Respectable, but not remarkable. Unless you have had her modified, she is merely a means of transportation."

Though Fran hadn't intended the words as criticism, Vaan had clearly taken them as such. Balthier caught Vaan by the shoulder and squeezed. "The _Strahl_ is a _military prototype_ ," Balthier stressed. "She's got modifications unavailable to civilians. Heat-sensors, stealth cloaking, and spy technology just to name a few. Her systems can track moving targets from miles away–a feature we've had little use for lately, as Fran's vision is just as good. You _need_ Fran to make up the difference."

Vaan shrugged out of Balthier's hold and gritted out, " _Fine_ ," between clenched teeth.

"Good." Balthier took a step back, and said, "Fran, you have the _Strahl's_ frequency codes. I shall rely upon you to maintain communications." This, with a pointed glance at Vaan, whom Balthier trusted roughly as much as the obnoxious whelp trusted him. Which was to say, not at all.

Fran placed her hand squarely in the center of Vaan's back and shoved him towards Balthier. "I will collect my things," she said to Balthier. "Best if you watch him until I return."

"No need," Balthier responded. "I expect he's intelligent enough to know when he's been outmaneuvered." He clapped Vaan on the shoulder, inciting a guttural growl from the younger man.

"Why even bother tracking me down?" Vaan snarled. "If the _Strahl_ is so much better, I mean."

"You know Penelo best," Balthier said. "Your insight is just as valuable as my ship." He stretched his arms above his head, a lazy, fluid gesture conveying his lack of fear that Vaan posed any sort of threat to him. "We want the same thing. There's no need to pit yourself against us on principle; in this matter, we're better allies than enemies."

Vaan's gaze flitted away uneasily. "I used to know her," he said. "When we were kids, I knew her. I haven't even _seen_ her in three years." He raked his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, hunching his shoulders. "Even before that, somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing her. Or maybe she stopped being the Penelo I knew."

Balthier thought back to the effervescent, exuberant child she had been, considered how their myriad tribulations had failed to dampen that vibrant spirit. In his mind she was eternally that laughing girl, suffused with endless delight over something as simple as falling snow.

"Come, now," he said. "How much could she have changed?"


	3. Chapter 3

_The Sword and Crown Tavern  
Summerlands, Rozarria_

Penelo slapped her palm down on the shiny surface of the table before her, and the man seated opposite her jerked in his seat, momentarily dislodged from his drunken stupor. "Come on, Jiraj," she snapped. "You're down two. Giving up already?"

Jiraj blinked his glassy, dazed eyes, and glanced down at the two shot glasses that sat on the table, filled to the brim with amber liquid. Between the both of them rested a number of empty glasses, turned down over a thick wad of banknotes, and he seemed to be mustering his courage as he stared at them, watching the thin paper edges flutter in the sultry breeze that drifted through the open window. At last his jaw firmed and his meaty fist lashed out to clench around a shot glass. He steeled himself as he tossed it back and slammed the empty glass onto the table, reaching blindly for the second. The liquid within the glass sloshed in the clumsy grip of his fleshy fingers, dribbling over his knuckles and splattering the table.

Penelo had half a mind to cry foul just on the basis that almost half the whiskey had been spilled, but it didn't matter anyway – before Jiraj even managed to raise the glass to the vicinity of his lips, he wobbled in his hair and at last slumped sideways, crashing to the floor in a heap of limbs.

A rousing cheer went up; Penelo accepted the accolades as her due and smothered her victorious grin as she swept aside the abandoned glasses to collect the banknotes trapped beneath them, piling them into a stack and tapping edge of the bundle on the table to align the bills before she folded them neatly in half and tucked them into her bodice.

The crowd here was rough and unscrupulous. Money was safer when stowed next to the skin rather than in a purse or wallet, which were more likely than not to be lifted.

She stumbled as she rose–purely for show, of course; her shots had been watered heavily–and headed for the bar, where the innkeeper, Bartaan, stood silently, his arms folded over his chest.

And then she stumbled again, and that one had _not_ been for show. She hit the floor hard, her palms stinging as they slapped the worn wood floorboards, her cheek aching where she'd knocked it against the corner of the table on the way down. There was the clatter of a chair and the clink of a solid iron chain.

A chorus of mocking laughter assailed her ears.

"Bartaan's little pet took a spill, gentlemen," crowed an inebriated patron. "You'd think she would've learned by now, but no – three years in, and she's still catching that chain on everything."

Penelo chose not to dignify the jeers with a response. Instead she thrust herself up onto her knees and gave the chain a vicious yank. The force of the pull dislodged the chain from where it had become tangled around the leg of the rickety chair, launching the chair in its entirety into the air. It took only a fraction of a second, hardly enough time for anything more than fleeting surprise to pass over the faces of the chortling drunkards as the chair began its descent, slamming into the lot of them, bowling them straight over.

Three fresh pints of ale were wasted along with them, slicking a floor that had been mopped too infrequently, turning the grimy floorboards soggy and streaking the collected dust and dirt.

Bartaan would have her clean it, of course. He always did.

An infuriated roar singed her ears. Shoving off the sprawled limbs of his idiot comrades, the foolish lout who had first mocked her climbed to his feet, his face burning a brilliant scarlet in mingled rage and humiliation. Malicious intent lurked in the depths of his ireful gaze, his mouth pinched and puckered into a disdainful scowl.

Penelo grabbed up a length of the chain, measuring it off swiftly as she rose to her feet, doubling it over in her hand. He lunged. She struck out, the iron links clanking as they connected with the side of his face. His lip split; blood poured, and he howled in pain.

Stupid man.

She got in two more good cracks before he anticipated the next blow, catching the chain in his fist and jerking. She felt the sharp bite of the iron cuff into the scarred flesh of her ankle. The room dipped and spun, tilting as her right foot was jerked out from under her. The breath whooshed from her lungs as her back hit the floor first, then a heartbeat later the world went temporarily black as the back of her head connected. A high-pitched ringing took up residence in her ears; she groaned and pressed her hands to them, and groaned again as the effort to breathe scorched her lungs like fire.

A rough, steady voice pierced the fog that enshrouded her mind. "That's enough."

"She cost me a pint!" a petulant voice replied.

"And she'll pay for it out of her earnings. Finest I carry." Bartaan's voice didn't carry far, but it didn't have to. The man was nearly seven feet of solid muscle, and rare were those who challenged him. And the ones that did never won.

This man was no exception. He dropped the chain and backed away, retreating to the table his cronies had taken themselves off to.

Bartaan gave a huff of disapproval. Penelo heard the squeak of a rag pressed against the inside of a glass, wiping away the dust that seemed to resettle hourly upon every surface of the tavern.

"On your feet, girl. I'm not in the mood for any of your theatrics."

Penelo took a great gulping gasp of air, willing the stars flickering before her eyes to fade. Of course he would call it theatrics; he wasn't the one getting the wind knocked out of him twice a week whenever someone decided she needed to be taught a lesson.

In the past three years, lots of self-righteous assholes had tried to teach her various lessons. In return, she had developed a thin skin, a quick temper, a low tolerance for their mockery, and a mean right-hook. The chain was a handicap, of course, but she'd found ways to use it against her unsuspecting tormentors. If she got in even a few good strikes, they'd learn a lesson of their own – she wasn't weak and she wasn't helpless.

As the bright spots faded and her vision restored itself, she shoved herself once more to her feet, feeling the thin trickle of blood down her foot that told her she'd earned herself a new wound. The chain hissed across the floor as she approached the bar, tugging the wad of bills out of her bodice to slap it on the counter in front of Bartaan.

"Eighteen hundred," she said.

"Not bad," he replied. "'Course, the whiskey's gonna cost you. The chair, too." His gaze slid over the bar, scrutinizing the droplets of blood she'd trailed along the floor. "Bandage as well, if you want one."

"Come on, Bartaan, that chair was _ancient_ ," she protested. "It was on its last legs; you know it was."

He shrugged indifferently. "Family heirloom," he said.

She scoffed, folding her arms over her chest in disbelief. "How much credit, then?"

"Call it five hundred." He set aside the glass he'd been polishing, swept the bills off the counter and thumbed through them rapidly.

"Only five hundred?" she gasped. "That's ludicrous."

"A debt's a debt," he retorted. "Nothin's free here."

She ground her teeth together and said in a fierce, ugly tone, "It's not even _my_ debt."

Another dismissive shrug. "Don't make no difference to me who pays it, long as it gets paid. 'Course if you didn't break so much 'o my furniture, you'd pay it off faster." He tucked the wad of bills into his pocket, collected a small book its hiding place beneath the counter and flipped the pages until he came to the right place. With a pencil, he jotted down the amount deducted from the debt and held the page up for her to see.

She made a disgusted sound deep in her throat. "At this rate, it'll be another six years before it's paid off."

"You'd cut that time in half if you were willing to–"

" _No_ ," she snarled. Once, just _once,_ barely a week after Raen had offered her up to Bartaan in order to satisfy his debt, Bartaan had attempted to sell her _services_ to an amorous patron. Though she had been deep in the clutches of betrayal and depression, she had summoned enough fury to strangle her prospective client half to death with the length of her chain.

Bartaan had never attempted to sell her again–violent whores were bad for business–but he _had_ chastised her for her excess of pride, and explained to her that she could work off Raen's debt much faster on her back than she could on her feet, and that it was her own damned fault if she spent the next ten years in his service.

She had had quite enough of men. After Raen's betrayal, she had acquired a mistrust of the entire gender. And she had been here three years already, trapped with an iron manacle around her ankle. It had been years since she had felt the sun on her face, years since she had seen anything beyond the dull wooden walls of this tavern, years since she had been able to sleep soundly, without her back pressed against the door just in case some unwelcome visitor should try to take her unawares.

The worst of it was that in three years she hadn't seen a single familiar face. There was no one looking for her; she had burned the few bridges she had had. And even were there anyone looking, they would never find her. They wouldn't even know where to begin.

Because Raen clearly hadn't been who he'd said he was. He had been looking for a meal ticket, and he had assumed that he'd found one in her. And when he'd discovered that not to be the case, he'd abandoned her at the earliest opportunity.

No, not just abandoned – _sold_. He had traded her for the value of his debt and left her to work it off in his stead, with not a shred of remorse or conscience. She hadn't even known it was happening – when Raen had stalked out of the bar after a muffled conversation with Bartaan, she had simply assumed that he had forgotten something aboard his airship. A full ten minutes had passed before she had begun to suspect something was amiss, and that was when Bartaan had approached her and quietly explained that she had been abandoned. She had been so shocked, so much in a state of disbelief that she had mutely accepted Bartaan's offer of a drink as an expression of sincere compassion.

When she had awoken the next morning, in addition to a devil of a hangover she had also acquired a solid iron manacle with an equally sturdy iron chain tethering her to the floor. Only then had Bartaan revealed to her that she had been surrendered to his custody to work off Raen's debt.

Trapped. In a sweltering, hellish tavern, amidst a sea of rough travelers overly given to violence and ill-equipped to understand the meaning of the word _no_ , no matter how many times it was presented to them. Fully half of her earnings went towards paying for the drinks of those she'd offended with her refusals. And still more to repair the things she'd damaged in defending herself against them.

Of course, Bartaan didn't care _what_ she did so long as she paid for it. In his eyes, she wasn't a person – she was collateral. An asset to be kept under lock and key until he was paid off.

And he kept his key ring tacked up behind the bar, perpetually out of reach for her...but always in sight, to remind her of all that was lost to her.

* * *

 _Summerlands, Rozarria  
Two weeks later_

Nothing. Not a damned thing. Not a single trace of her, high or low. It was truly as if she'd fallen off the very surface of the world. It simply wasn't natural; she'd earned a certain degree of fame years ago for her assistance in restoring Dalmasca's rightful queen to her throne, and the furor had yet to die completely down. That there was no news whatsoever of her in the past three years suggested something nefarious.

It had occurred to Balthier just today that, from what he remembered, Penelo was hardly the sort to hold a grudge. Even if she and Vaan had had as horrible a row as he expected they had, surely she would have posted a note to him at some point in the last three years.

So she was a hostage, then. Hidden away somewhere. But why? There had been no ransom demand, no threat of death or dismemberment. If there had been, it would certainly have been delivered to Queen Ashelia, who would likely have sent the whole of Dalmasca into an uproar of outrage.

He'd been operating on the assumption that she had _willfully_ hidden herself away. Based on Vaan's recollection of events, it was the most logical assumption. It was, after all, the privilege of the young and naive to rush into monumental decisions – like running off to get married. But then to disappear entirely? Unlikely in the extreme. He ought to have realized before now, for he'd wasted time enough already.

Fortunately, he still had at his disposal a number of criminal contacts that could prove useful. Not so much in locating a person who had disappeared willingly, but certainly in the seedy underworld where people were involuntarily hidden away on a regular basis. If the right palms were greased, discreet inquiries could be made.

He had only to track down the right people. It ought not be so terribly difficult; each region's criminal elements tended to have their own ways of hiding in plain sight. An average citizen could visit a den of thieves and be none the wiser. Dalmasca's code was simple enough; they tended to use what would be perceived as tongue-in-cheek references to their conduct. The aptly named Thieves' Guild was just precisely that, after all. Archadia favored imagery over words; any shop whose sign boasted a white rose was invariably a front for organized crime. Rozarria had yet to catch up with the modern age and still used the tired method of naming their criminal establishments after bladed weapons. The Sword and Thistle, The Scythe and Crow, The Glaive and Wyvern – all guaranteed to play host to the lowest, filthiest dregs of humanity.

It would take hours to reach the next major city, but there was no real benefit to searching out an informant there. True, the city establishments would be more often frequented, but the outlying ones tended to house the looser-tongued sort, the kind of scum whose indiscretion might've gotten him blacklisted from the top-tier taverns. That sort always seemed to have an open palm, an unquenchable thirst for spirits too dear for his pocketbook, and a willingness to trade information for coin. And it was exactly that sort that Balthier required.

He pulled up the _Strahl's_ Nav screen and punched in the most commonly used moniker – _Sword_. A second later, the screen pulled up a plethora of results, arranged in order of their coordinates, closest first. And just his luck, there happened to be a tavern called The Sword and Crown just half an hour's flight away.

It was a start, at least. A place to begin from, an out-of-the-way tavern where he could make a few judicious inquiries, establish connections, and hopefully pay off the right people well enough for them to point him in the right direction.

A minute adjustment to the _Strahl's_ course, and he was well underway.

* * *

The _Strahl_ began its programmed descent shortly after Balthier got off the Comm with Fran, having alerted her to his plan and suggested that she and Vaan do the same. Between the three of them, they'd exhausted all legitimate avenues. It was time, therefore, to explore the illicit ones.

Framed by a backdrop of trees whose huge, waxy leaves glowed a vibrant green in the light of the setting sun, The Sword and Crown was less tavern and more wayfarer's outpost. Its wooden sign was faded and cracked with lack of care and sun exposure, the silvery paint that had once decorated the wood-burned lettering had, for the most part, flaked away. Though the roof had been thatched many times over, it appeared that they had been slapdash jobs at best. Located as it was not in a town but midway between them, it would be frequented more often by passersby than regulars, and those unattached to the area would always be more willing to part with their secrets than those with connections nearby.

This sort of tavern was Balthier's very favorite, for the patrons always seemed to be swallowing more liquor than pride, and that surfeit of conceit and lack of inhibitions brought on by too much drink nearly invariably made for easy marks. Those sorts needed not be lured into unwary speech by coin; they could be bought off for so small a pleasure as a game of chance.

His was the only airship about, though ostensibly the clearing of packed dirt a hundred or so yards from the tavern was intended to accommodate them. As soon as the _Strahl_ had safely touched down, he vaulted from his seat and into his room, rooting through his desk drawers in search of playing cards, dice, and coins. It had been an age since he had truly bilked anyone in a game of chance, considering that pirating was so much more lucrative. Nevertheless, there was no time like the present to ensure that he stayed at the top of his game and refreshed his skill set.

He selected his tools and secreted them away in the interior pockets of his vest, then strapped his holster about his waist, tucking his revolver into it. Not that he expected a fight to ensue, but the obvious display of weaponry would caution any of the more volatile sorts that might be lurking within against antagonizing him.

As he disembarked from the _Strahl_ and approached the tavern, he realized that his initial impression of it had been flattering in the extreme. The view from the skies had camouflaged numerous faults: the rusty hinges upon doors and shutters, the shutters that were themselves only a stout wind away from full collapse, the thick layer of dust coating every plank, every pane. It was the sort of dust that clouded the air in the windy seasons, turning the world to shades of sepia, collecting in the lungs and every conceivable crevice. Insidiously fine, it took up residence and refused to do aught more than to be relocated, for even the slightest swipe of the broom would send it bursting back into the air, floating for hours until it finally deigned to settle once again.

The planks of wood comprising the stairs leading up to the door were worn to a silky gloss by years of feet trampling them, scuffing away the roughness of the wood until only polished smoothness remained. Nonetheless they creaked ominously beneath his feet, the nails groaning in their moorings. The entirety of the tavern seemed a whisper away from collapsing in on itself.

Bits of what might've been brass shone through the grime and dirt that coated the door handle. He was loath to touch it; he had always been fastidious to a fault in regards to hygiene, and he could not possibly know the state of cleanliness of those travelers that had come before him. Judging by the look of the handle, however, he could hazard a guess, and it would hardly be complimentary. But unless he wished to enter via window, which he did not, the door was the only obvious entrance, and so he steeled his stomach and tamped down on his disgust and at last wrapped his fingers around the handle and yanked it open.

The interior was dim. Stray beams of light struggled through the ancient shutters in rays made visible by the motes of dust swirling in the stagnant air. The ramshackle interior was littered with furniture in varying states of disrepair, each piece mismatched and eclectic, as if they'd been scavenged from a rummage sale. The air of pathos was stifling; the scant few patrons bent over their drinks, heads down, shoulders slumped as if the weight of worlds pressed upon them. A measure of disappointment rose up; these patrons were all far too dispirited to go in for a game. Coin, then, it would have to be.

Behind the bar, a great hulking brute of a man stood, hands pressed flush against the polished surface of the bar, mouth drawn into an uncompromising line as he scrutinized Balthier. And Balthier got the distinct sense that he was being measured, his net worth being tallied. A man like that, running a place like this, could probably determine a stranger's bank balance to within a couple of gil with remarkable accuracy.

"Welcome to the Sword and Crown," the tavern keeper said. "Name's Bartaan. What'll you have?" His gruff voice scraped out of his throat as if it had been thoroughly coated in the dust that floated in the air.

Balthier glanced at the bottles lining the warped shelves behind the bar. Though there were plenty of spirits on display ranging from rotgut swill to fine, well-aged liquors, the contents of each were a uniform color across the board. Like as not, the bottles all contained the same cheap whiskey – it was only the price that would vary.

The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he moved closer to the bar. "Whiskey, neat. Your best," he clarified. "I only drink quality."

The flash of smug satisfaction that crossed Bartaan's face was fleeting. Balthier knew he was not well known in these parts; likely the man had taken him for a gull, someone who would be easily fleeced. Which was well enough for Balthier; if the man thought that he had the upper hand, he would be easily lead into divulging information.

Bartaan pulled a bottle at random from the top shelf and plunked it down on the bar. "Cost you six hundred fifty," he said.

"For the bottle?"

"For two fingers."

"That's preposterous," Balthier said. "I could purchase an entire bottle for half that in the city."

"Then you should've bought one in the city. This far out, good whiskey's hard to come by." Bartaan retrieved a glass from beneath the counter, wiped the dusty interior with a rag, and set it on the bar. "If cost's a concern, I've got some mid-grade."

Balthier affected an offended expression. "Cost is never a concern," he sniffed disdainfully, digging in his vest pocket for a wad of bills, making a grand show of flipping through them, peeling off enough to cover the cost of ludicrously overpriced whiskey. Bartaan measured out a pour of liquor into the glass and slid the across the counter to Balthier in exchange for the wad of bills, which he tucked beneath the counter out of sight.

"You're not the usual sort we get all the way out here," Bartaan said. "What brings you, then?"

"Business," Balthier replied. He lifted the glass, took a sip, and only just managed to mask his distaste. A far cry from the smooth, warming liquor he was accustomed to, this swill stung his mouth and tasted foul besides. It was fit, perhaps, for stripping rust from metal, but certainly _not_ for consumption. Belatedly he realized that Bartaan was observing his reactions, ostensibly to ascertain whether or not he was a man with more money than sense. He braced himself for another sip, managed to feign an approximation of satisfaction, and gritted out, "As I said, only the best."

Bartaan went back to cleaning glassware with swift swipes of the rag, a sliver of a smirk lingering about his mouth. "What sort of business?"

"Looking for someone," he said. "Or, at least, looking for information _about_ someone."

Bartaan's hands slowed, his grip tightening on the glass in his massive fist. "Depends on who you're looking for. 'Course, nothin' comes for free."

"I didn't expect it would." Balthier reached back into his vest pocket and extracted his money once again. "I'm looking for a girl," he said. "Blonde hair, blue eyes, appalling Dalmascan accent–"

The door of the tavern burst abruptly open, and a shaggy-haired man burst inside, his chest heaving as if he'd run a great distance. "Oi, Penelo!" he bellowed. "I got the cash; I want a rematch!"

"She's still sleepin' off last night," Bartaan said in an aggravated tone. "You come back in an hour or so, Jiraj, and I'll make sure she's up to it."

Jiraj slammed his fist on the counter, rattling the glassware beneath. "Ain't I a payin' customer, same as anyone else? She works for you; you get her out here! What sort of tavern are you runnin', Bartaan?"

"The sort that'll see you tossed out on your arse if you keep up your caterwaulin'." Unruffled, Bartaan grabbed up his rag and swiped it over the smudge Jiraj's dirty fist had left on the table.

A door creaked open down the corridor, and a familiar voice shouted, " _Will you all kindly shut the hell up_?"

Balthier's brows winged upwards in surprise.

Bartaan heaved a sigh and set aside the rag. "Now you've done it," he snapped at Jiraj. "She's in a fine temper. I'd suggest you make yourself scarce; she breaks things when she's riled, and I'm not due a fresh shipment 'o goods until next month."

"So?" Jiraj sneered. "She's gotta pay for what she breaks–"

"You _know_ she's not on until five. She'll break things over _your_ damn fool head if she catches you here 'fore then." Bartaan leveled a warning look at Jiraj, who promptly reconsidered his position.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said, and beat a hasty retreat, just as the door down the hall slammed.

"Now," Bartaan said to Balthier. "You said you were looking for a girl?"

Balthier tucked his money back into his pocket. " _Was_ ," he said. "I _was_ looking for a girl." He turned towards the hall. Shrouded in shadows, the silhouetted outline of a woman stalked angrily towards the main room. She shaded her eyes with one hand as she entered the room, as if even the dim lighting hurt them. A scowl was etched upon her face, her blonde hair mussed from sleep, tangled down her back.

Five years older, ill-tempered, and bedraggled, to be sure...but absolutely, definitely Penelo.

She made an aggravated sound in her throat, and dropped her hand from her eyes. "Bartaan," she snarled, turning towards the bar, "I want–"

As she caught sight of Balthier, her voice died away into silence. Her jaw dropped, her eyes went impossibly wide.

Balthier fought a triumphant grin and pushed his glass of whiskey back across the bar towards Bartaan. "I believe I've just found her."


	4. Chapter 4

Penelo closed her eyes, pressed her fingers over them, and rubbed. Hard. Last night had been rough going, but she hadn't thought she'd imbibed nearly enough to explain waking hallucinations. Oh, her precious sleep might've been interrupted by the ungodly racket, but she was mostly clear-headed and alert.

So, why, then, was Balthier standing at the bar, his arms folded across his chest, looking as if he'd conquered the whole of Ivalice?

And here she was, having just rolled out of bed–or rather, having hoisted herself from her pallet–having neither brushed her hair nor washed her face, still in last night's rumpled clothing. She probably looked like death warmed over.

Incredulous, she turned her head slightly towards Bartaan. "What's...what's going on here?"

Bartaan lifted his shoulders in a disinterested shrug. "Says he's lookin' for you," he said. "You coulda stayed put a bit longer. Figure I might've made a bit of gil off him."

"Oh." _Oh_? _Oh_ was the best she could manage? But her head was swimming, swirling vacantly through drifts of confused fog. A familiar face for the first time in years –and she didn't have a clue what she was supposed to say.

Unimpressed with her bland response, Balthier's mouth tilted into a scowl. "Have you _any_ idea of how much worry you've put everyone through?"

Nonplussed, Penelo could say only, "No, not really." Who was _everyone_? Why should they worry _now_? It had been three years already.

The scowl deepened. "Where the devil have you _been_?"

"Here. Working." She touched her fingers to her jawline to ascertain if she'd yet recovered from her mystified shock, if she'd managed to at last close her mouth and stop looking like a fish gasping for breath. Satisfied she'd recovered herself from her slack-jawed expression, she took a step forward...right into a chair leg. She stumbled abruptly, and the chain that had previously slid silently across the floor jangled and clattered with the force of a gunshot in the otherwise silent tavern.

Balthier's eyes zeroed in on the source of the noise, and then narrowed dangerously. His shoulders snapped tense and straight, his jaw tightened, and a muscle ticked in his cheek, betraying his sudden surge of ire. With a jerky, furious movement, he whirled to face Bartaan, gritting out through clenched teeth, "What the hell is _that_?"

Again, Bartaan shrugged. "She owed a debt. Couldn't have her going walkabout."

Making a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, Balthier once again retrieved his wad of banknotes. "How much?" he inquired tersely.

"She's down to about six hundred thousand."

" _Six hundred thousand_?" Balthier's fist crushed the banknotes, crinkling the paper. He whirled on Penelo, growling incredulously, "How in the world did you manage to accrue a debt of that magnitude?"

Her brows lifted. "It's not _mine_ ," she said irritably. "I just got conned into paying it off."

" _What_ could have possessed you to agree to a fool thing like that?"

She wiggled her foot to jangle the chain and snapped, " _I didn't_."

Balthier jerked around once more to snarl at Bartaan, "You chained her up for a debt that wasn't hers to pay?"

Bartaan paused in his diligent wiping of the counter, as if the fury in Balthier's voice had pinged an alarm. Penelo knew what he'd be thinking; Balthier would appear to him to be some sort of dandified city gentleman. His clothes were clean and in good repair, stitched fine and evenly, embellished with gold thread. His leather boots were ornately decorated, elegant and expensive. He was immaculately groomed, clean-shaven. He looked the sort to carry a weapon he never fired, as if he enjoyed the pretense of playing at being a gentleman pirate. Bartaan had a good six inches and fifty pounds on him; he would never take Balthier for any sort of threat. Not when measured against the usual sort of patron he dealt with.

Bartaan continued wiping down the counter top. "Don't care who pays the debt, provided it gets paid," he said. "She was given over to satisfy it. Got another five, six years left most likely. Could be as few as two or three, if–"

" _Don't_ say it," Penelo warned, curling her fingers around the back of a chair. It was bad enough that Balthier bore witness to her humiliation; if it were compounded by Bartaan's suggestion that she should shorten her imprisonment by selling her body, she would just sink through the floor and die.

Bartaan considered her tight grip on the chair, accurately guessed that a continuance of the conversation might lead to it being lobbed at his head, and muttered, "Hmmph. Stubbornness'll be the end of you, girl." His gaze flicked back to Balthier. "You look like a gent with money. If you're buying, I could be persuaded to part with her. More trouble than she's worth at times."

Penelo drew in an infuriated breath, prepared to launch a scathing rejoinder, but Balthier waved away her protest before she could voice it.

"Only a fool would carry so much ready capital on his person," he said. "I do, however, have an airship."

"A trade, then," Bartaan suggested.

Balthier laughed. "Hardly. The airship is a prototype, the only one of her kind. She's worth at least five million." He braced his forearms on the counter. "Given the disparity in value, I propose a game. Cards or dice; winner gets the ship _and_ the girl."

Penelo felt her stomach sink to her feet. What was he thinking, challenging Bartaan? It was foolish to go in against the tavern owner in a place like this; all the cards and dice were rigged. Balthier was guaranteed to lose, and he'd be forced to surrender his beloved _Strahl_.

"No," she said. "No, really, it's not your–"

"Done," Bartaan said. He slung the rag over his shoulder, pitching it with perfect accuracy into the bucket of soapy water behind the counter. "Sounds fair to me."

" _No_!" Panicked, Penelo shoved herself towards the bar. "No, Bartaan, you can't–"

"Gentleman's agreement," Bartaan interrupted. "Can't go back on it now." He dug around in a drawer behind the counter, searching for a deck of cards. He shoved the deck he found into his breast pocket, whistling jovially as he snatched a bottle of whiskey off of the shelf and poured three generous glasses. "On the house," he said to Balthier as he shoved one over. "Least I can do."

" _Bartaan_ ," Penelo hissed. "Don't you _dare_."

Bartaan slid a glass in her direction. "Hair 'o the dog," he said. "Still a bit green about the gills, are you?" He took a healthy swig of his own whiskey, swished the liquid around in his mouth and swallowed. "It ain't none of your business if he wants to bet his ship."

"In a _fair_ game, I wouldn't object," she whispered furiously.

Bartaan slanted her a warning glance. "Bite your tongue," he growled. "All the gamin' done here is fair, and I'd better not hear you imply otherwise again." He caught her by the arm and steered her towards an open table, shoving her down into an empty chair. "You're gonna sit there and stay nice and quiet. It's your freedom on the line, after all."

Penelo ducked her head and grimaced. He wanted her close at hand so that he could monitor her, make sure she couldn't alert Balthier to his intention to cheat. Bartaan was going to end up owning the _Strahl and_ the next six years of her life. Her hands fisted in her lap in helpless fury.

"You got any objection to spectators?" Bartaan tossed the question over his shoulder to Balthier.

"Of course not," Balthier said, sweeping his arm out in a grand, magnanimous gesture. "The more the merrier. And spectators will keep the game honest."

Bartaan's eyes narrowed minutely. "You implying I'd run a dishonest game?"

Balthier laughed heartily. "Of course not. After all, _I_ posed the challenge." He clapped Bartaan on the shoulder. His whiskey sloshed over the rim of his glass, splattering the front of Bartaan's shirt. Balthier yanked a snowy white linen handkerchief out of his vest pocket, dabbing ineffectually at the splotches. "My apologies," he said, "Strong spirits go straight to my head."

With a barely-muffled sound of distaste, Bartaan waved away the handkerchief, running his fingers subtly over his breast pocket where he had stored the deck of cards. Satisfied that the deck remained undisturbed, he called out to the few patrons, "Any 'o you care to witness a game? Got a gent here what wants to wager his airship against Penelo."

Three instantaneous assents from the only patrons left in the bar. With nothing better to do at this time of day than witness a high-stakes game, they happily clustered around the table as Balthier and Bartaan took seats on opposite ends.

Penelo chewed her lower lip and ventured at last, "This _really_ isn't necessary, Balthier."

Bartaan glared over his whiskey at Penelo. To Balthier, he asked, "Best two of three?"

"That won't be necessary," Balthier responded. "Just one will do. This _is_ an honest establishment, after all."

Beneath the table, a foot slammed into Balthier's shin. Somehow, through sheer dint of will, he managed to turn a grimace into a grin. Unless Bartaan had reason to resort to nonverbal communication, he guessed that the foot belonged to Penelo, who was probably still attempting to persuade him to withdraw his challenge. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but entirely unnecessary.

Balthier rolled up his sleeves and rested his forearms on the table. "Aces high?"

"Mmm. One discard, maximum of two cards." Bartaan withdrew the deck from his pocket and gave it a quick shuffle, then offered it to Balthier to cut. After Bartaan tapped the deck back into order, he began dealing out the cards with the practiced fluidity of a card sharp. He was good; Balthier would give him that much – but he had made the mistake of underestimating his opponent, and that would be his downfall.

Balthier swiped his cards off the table and fanned them out in his hands, peering over the top of them to study his opponent's face. Bartaan might've had quite the poker face when things were going his way, but just now his thwarted expectations were writ fresh upon it. His bushy eyebrows yanked upward, as if drawn by invisible strings. His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in suspicion. Furtively he flicked his thumb over the edges of his cards as he assembled them into some sort of order, a gesture which would easily have been overlooked by an observer, except that Balthier knew he was checking for marks.

Bartaan's face gathered into a subtle frown as he stared over the top of his cards at Balthier, who kept his face carefully blank. Impotent rage burned behind Bartaan's eyes, and Balthier tamped down on a measure of satisfaction lest it show in his own face. The tightness at the corners of his mouth suggested that Bartaan would dearly love to call out Balthier as a cheat, but the very act of doing so would reveal his own perfidy. He could not expose Balthier without drawing attention to the fact that he regularly used marked cards in his establishment.

"Two out of three," Bartaan growled between clenched teeth, his eyes boring into Balthier's. "Twouldn't be fair, not givin' you a fighting chance."

"We agreed to one game," Balthier said lightly. "Will you go back on your word, now that you've seen your hand?"

Bartaan made an aggravated sound in his throat, his hand bending the cards as he clenched it around them. Clustered around him, the onlookers murmured to one another, their faith in Bartaan's fair play shaken by Balthier's simple question.

"How many?" Bartaan grunted the question, his jaw taut and tense.

Balthier plucked cards from his hand and slid them, face down, across the table. "Two." He read the indecision in Bartaan's eyes, the worry in the lines that creased his face. His options were few; he could deal fairly or he could attempt to divine the marking system to determine what cards to deal to Balthier.

Too bad for him, these cards were custom, marked in a system of Balthier's own devising. Bartaan would be hard pressed to work it out in only a single hand.

Bartaan's hand hovered over the deck. At last his fingers closed around it, his thumb rubbing the edges of the cards as his brows drew into a frown. Finally he made a rough sound and flicked the two top cards off the deck. They sailed across the surface of the table, where Balthier collected them and slid them into his hand.

Considering his cards, Bartaan slumped back in his chair, hunching his shoulders as if to shield his cards from the onlookers gathered around him. He had thoroughly embroiled himself in this mess; there was no way for him to palm extra cards without a spectator noticing, no way for him to trade out the entirety of his hand and start fresh. Perversely, Balthier was rather enjoying watching the man squirm like a worm on a hook.

"Will you discard?" he asked, striving for a guileless tone, and earning himself a glare from Bartaan. Beneath the table, Penelo ground her heel into the toe of his boot.

"Two," Bartaan said at last, gruffly. He tossed his chosen discards into the center of the table, and dealt himself replacements. His lips turned down in a scowl as he beheld his new hand. A muscle ticked rhythmically in his cheek. He laid down his cards with a snarled, "Pair of tens."

Balthier revealed his own hand, laying his cards flush against the table. "Two pair, aces over eights." He held out his hand towards Bartaan and said, "I'll have the key, now."

Beside him, Penelo drew in a shaky breath and wilted in her seat, pressing her hands to her face in abject shock.

The legs of Bartaan's chair scraped across the floor as he shoved it back and stood, fists clenching. "You...you cheated."

"I _beg_ your pardon." Balthier stood, squaring his shoulders, the fingers of his right hand brushing the handle of his weapon. "Inadvisable, to make such a claim simply because you've lost."

"You posed the challenge," Bartaan snarled.

"You accepted," Balthier retorted. "You selected the cards. You _dealt_ the cards. And yet you would accuse me of cheating?"

A tense silence pervaded the room. Corded tendons stood out in stark relief upon Bartaan's throat as he convulsively swallowed.

"'E's got his sleeves rolled up, Bartaan," one of the observers said. "He ain't touched the cards other than to cut when you asked. 'Ow could he have cheated? We was all of us watchin'."

Bartaan flexed his hands, his teeth clenched tightly. His breath came in heavy pants through his nose, his eyes straying to Balthier's yet-holstered gun as if weighing the likelihood that Balthier might be tempted to draw it.

The chain clinked upon the floor as Penelo rose to her feet. "He keeps the key behind the bar," she said in a low voice. "Just there, hanging on the wall."

"Be a dear and fetch it, then, won't you?" he responded.

She jingled the chain and murmured in a rueful voice, "Would if I could."

Balthier made a disgusted sound in his throat. Of course the depraved slave-trader would keep it in sight but torturously just out of reach. His fingers curled around the handle of his gun, lifting it free of its holster to level it in Bartaan's direction.

"If you value your lives," he said to the lingering patrons, "I would suggest leaving. Immediately."

Bartaan grunted, "He won't shoot; he's just a -"

The crack of a gunshot splintered the stillness. The bullet whizzed just past Bartaan's ear, close enough to singe, and lodged itself within the wall. Faced with the smoking barrel of Balthier's gun, the remaining men scrambled for the exit with all due haste, knocking over chairs in their mad dash for escape.

Bartaan slowly lifted his hands into the air in a show of surrender, his mouth stretched into a snarl.

"Now," Balthier snapped in a crisp, mocking tone, " _you_ will retrieve the key."

"No reason I ought to help," Bartaan said. "You're just gonna shoot me anyway."

"It's a distinct possibility," Balthier acknowledged. "But of a certainty your actions from here on out will determine whether I shoot to wound or shoot to kill." He shrugged, as if he couldn't be bothered to dredge up an opinion either way.

Wisely, Bartaan began to edge around the table, keeping his hands visible lest Balthier be prematurely moved to violence. "It weren't a fair game," he muttered. "You cheated."

"Of course," Balthier admitted with a shrug, now that the bar was deserted and there were no remaining patrons to come to Bartaan's aid. "However, you'd have hardly known that had your own cards not been marked. I might've lured you into a rigged game, but you were just as willing to give one to me. Really, it was your own fault. If you hadn't insisted on spectators, you might've had a passing chance at sleight of hand."

"How'd you do it, then?" Bartaan asked as he rounded the bar and snatched the keys off the hook. "You couldn't have done it at the table. You'd've been seen."

"Switched the cards out when I spilled the whiskey," Balthier said. "I assure you, I am not so clumsy as that." From his vest pocket he plucked a deck of cards and dropped them on the table. "These are yours. I'll want mine back, of course; they employ a marking system of my own design. Cost me a small fortune."

As Bartaan once again rounded the bar dangling the key ring from his fingers, Penelo held out her hand and said in a snide tone, "That's plenty close enough. Toss them here."

With a muttered invective, he hurled them into the air toward Balthier instead. Balthier's attenion diverted momentarily as he stretched his free hand up to grab for them. In the space of a moment, Bartaan ducked down, grabbed the iron chain, and yanked Penelo's feet right out from under her.

Penelo's breath left her lungs on a sharp cry, and Balthier turned just in time to see her crash to the floor, her head striking the ground. Her face twisted in pain, her arms drew inward as she struggled to draw in a breath, wheezing with the effort.

Balthier managed only a single step towards her before Bartaan slammed into him, throwing the both of them to the ground. Bartaan landed heavily, squeezing the air from Balthier's lungs in a steady _whoosh._ Stars burst; blackness threatened at the edges of his vision, and yet he managed to clench his fingers around his weapon. A meaty fist clutched his own, prying at his fingers, wrestling for possession of the gun. Balthier worked his free arm up and under, drew back and thrust the point of his elbow into Bartaan's throat.

Bartaan made a strangled sound, his massive body jerking as Balthier relentlessly crushed his windpipe, momentarily relieving the pressure of his knee in Balthier's solar plexus. On a swift, gasping intake of air into his oxygen-starved lungs, Balthier withdrew his free hand, clenched it into a fist, and launched a haymaker. His fist connected with Bartaan's jaw with enough force to send him reeling sideways, allowing Balthier the opportunity to twist about and attempt to pry Bartaan's fist free.

As he dug his blunt nails into Balthier's forearm, Bartaan grated, " _No one_ cheats me."

There was a swift flash of light striking metal, the gleam of iron catching a stray sunbeam, the clink of chains. A moment later, Bartaan gagged as a string of links draped his throat and pulled tight. He released Balthier's arm to clench his fingers around the links, struggling to yank them away. His eyes bulged, his teeth clenched – his face flushed an angry red which swiftly swept into purple.

Penelo stood behind Bartaan, the iron chains crossed round Bartaan's neck and wrapped tightly around her clenched fists, turning her knuckles a stark white. She withstood the man's frantic thrashing, pressed her foot to the small of his back and shoved him onto his belly, off of Balthier.

She hissed in a vindictive whisper at Bartaan's ear, "I should have done this _years_ ago."

Balthier shoved himself to his feet, his brows arching toward his hairline. He leveled his weapon at Bartaan and opened his mouth to call Penelo off the man...until he saw the blood dripping steadily down her foot to pool upon the dusty floor. Bartaan had pulled her off her feet with the chain, and in the process the manacle about her ankle had bitten into her skin, rending her flesh.

And suddenly he was not so inclined to pull her back.

In moments, Bartaan's fingers ceased to pry at the chain. His body shuddered and went limp, and Penelo dropped the chain about his neck, allowing him to fall face-first to the floor. The links had left welts in her hands, purpling her fingers, and her chest heaved as she rose to her feet and thrust a shaking hand through her hair.

With a heartfelt sigh, she cast a beatific smile at Balthier. "I can't begin to explain how good that felt." She nudged Bartaan with her foot, and a faint groan, hoarse and scratchy, issued forth from his abused throat. "Still alive," she sniffed. "Pity."

Balthier stared, dazed, as she stalked resolutely across the floor, retrieved the fallen key ring, and propped her foot on a nearby chair. She shoved the key in the lock and gave it a vicious turn. The tiny padlock snapped open, and she caught it in one hand. With the other hand she pried open the iron manacle to release her foot, wiggling her toes experimentally.

"Wow," she breathed. "It's off. At last." An ecstatic giggle erupted from her throat, a shade of the exuberant girl she had been five years before surfacing for what must've been the first time in years.

She twirled the key ring on her finger, hefted the manacle and padlock in her hand, and sauntered across the room back to Bartaan, who lay, still unconscious, on the floor. In moments she had clamped the manacle around his wrist and padlocked it shut.

"What will you do with the keys?" Balthier found himself asking.

She rose, considered the key ring in her hand for a moment, and at last said, "I _could_ take them."

"Someone will doubtless pick the lock for him," he said. "Eventually."

She shrugged. "Likely. So there's no point in taking the keys. I think I'll just..." Her eyes lit on the far wall behind the bar, and a vindictive smile spread slowly across her face. "I think I'll just leave them _there_."

Balthier covered his mouth to smother a chuckle as she hopped the bar and hung the keys up right where Bartaan normally kept them. Which was to say, just out of reach. So that Bartaan, when he eventually awoke, would learn yet another valuable lesson at the hands of his former drudge. Cruelty begets cruelty.

Penelo dusted off her hands and headed for the door, slinging it open and shading her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured inside. "I don't suppose you're heading my way?" she asked. "I find myself in need of a ride."

Bedraggled and bloody, having just strangled a grown man into unconsciousness with a length of iron chain, _and_ having only moments before been freed from years of servitude, and yet she somehow managed to phrase the question so very casually.

"I suppose that depends on where you're headed," he said.

"Anywhere," she responded, turning her face to the orange glow of the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of freedom. "Anywhere at all, provided it's far away from here."


	5. Chapter 5

The sun revealed details that the dim interior of the tavern had not. Penelo's face was streaked with dirt, her clothing was riddled with rips and tears that had been mended and re-mended over and over again. Like as not it was her only set, for she left the tavern with nothing but the clothes on her back and a slight limp, owing either to the deep, crescent gouge on her ankle or to the reality of having to adjust to the lack of a manacle.

Her eyes were rimmed with deep smudges of purple attesting to a lack of sleep. Her skin was so pale as to be nearly translucent. Doubtless the bright sunlight she now enjoyed so openly was the first she'd glimpsed in three years that hadn't been stolen through a slatted window.

She hadn't even so much as a pair of shoes to call her own.

But she didn't seem to mind that her feet were caked in dust and grime; she only stretched her arms over her head and reached for the sky, as if she might pull a piece of it down to her to hold in her hand.

"I forgot," she said softly. "I forgot how bluethe sky is. I really couldn't get very near any windows, you know, and Bartaan _never_ opened them. You think there's things you can't forget, but you can. You can forget everything." She took a shuddering breath. "You can lose everything, a piece at a time, until you're someone completely different from who you were."

The wistful statement did something strange to his heart; it wrenched in abject sympathy. He asked, "How did this situation come about?"

She shook her head ruefully. "I was young and stupid," she said. "I got myself into a situation I couldn't get myself out of." She paused as they neared the _Strahl_ , glancing over her shoulder at him. "I don't suppose I could borrow your bathroom?"

"My bathroom?" Again, his gaze wandered over dirt-streaked cheeks, tangled hair, the blood that was drying on her skin. Oh–she wished to bathe. "Yes," he said. "I think you had better."

She squealed in excitement, performed a little pirouette and fanned her fingers out in glee. "You have _no idea_ how long it's been since I've had an actual shower," she said.

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Oh, I think I've an inkling," he muttered darkly. Briefly he considered turning about and torching the whole damned tavern with Bartaan still chained up within.

But she had raced on ahead, kicking up tiny clouds of dust in her haste to reach the _Strahl_. She waited impatiently on the dock, pacing back and forth before the locked door until at last he caught up and opened it.

The very instant her feet crossed the threshold, she jerked her shirt over her head, casting it aside, striding resolutely down the tiny corridor. Baffled, Balthier could only stare at the discarded garment, and then at the smooth slope of her bare back as she sauntered blithely down the hall. He reached down to scoop up the shirt and followed.

She had disappeared into _his_ room, the door cracked only slightly, wedged open by the grubby pair of shorts that had been abandoned in the doorway. He cleared his throat and gingerly lifted them from the floor, scrunching them in the hand that held her shirt. Then he rapped his knuckles against the wood-paneled door and announced, "Penelo, you seem to have left behind some of your...er, clothing."

From within, her voice echoed. "I'll get it in a bit!"

And yet the door was still just the tiniest bit ajar. He ought to close it. He really ought to close it. Probably she'd had little enough privacy these past three years. Probably she would be furious if he invaded her privacy now.

He heard the squeaking of taps, the rush of water hitting the inside of the tub, and a small, delighted laugh. And still he had not closed the damned door. Why had he not closed the damned door?

"Balthier?" Her voice was closer now, no longer reverberating from the tiled walls of the bathroom. "Where do you keep your shampoo?"

He cleared his throat again. "Cabinet to the left of the sink," he said. "Towels are in the right."

"Ahh." Her fingers closed around the door frame, half her face and a sliver of bare shoulder peeking through the gap. "Oh! You brought my clothes." Her free hand slipped through the gap, fingers outstretched. She snagged them out of his hands and pulled them through. "I'll be quick," she said. And the door snapped shut in his face.

* * *

Balthier scanned the horizon, stretched out in his chair with his boots propped upon the chair beside him. Beneath the _Strahl_ , the thick canopy of trees rushed by in a vibrant green blur, a sea of leaves and tangled boughs cresting and rolling in the wind. Shortly after she had ensconced herself in his room he had engaged the _Strahl's_ engines and lifted off, wanting to put as much distance between them and the tavern, lest he be tempted to set the place ablaze.

She had said _quick,_ but he was beginning to wonder if she had somehow forgotten the meaning of the word. It had been well over an hour since she had commandeered his bedroom, and still she showed no sign of emerging.

And he had discovered, with little else to do than await her, that her very presence upon his ship was responsible for some rather disturbing realizations.

Foremost: she sang in the shower. For the first half-hour, weak strains of some off-key melodies had sailed down the hallway, filling his ears. At first he had been surprised, then amused, and then he had found himself listening intently for the shreds of music over the hum of the _Strahl's_ engines.

Then, it had suddenly occurred to him that she had no clean clothing. What she _did_ have by way of clothing was hardly fit to grace a rag-heap. And he felt sure that, having only recently shed the grime and dirt that she had been covered in for what must have been years, she was hardly likely to crawl right back into those filthy rags. At the very least she would have to wash them first.

So what would she wear? Because surely she did _not_ intend to wander about clad only in a towel.

The more he tried to vanquish these thoughts, the more they seemed to swirl about his head like buzzing little insects determined to build a nest in his brain. What the devil had he been thinking? He had intended to recover her, establish that she was indeed safe, and then reconvene with Fran.

And yet he had not charted a course for Rabanastre, where he might see her safely home. He hadn't charted any sort of course whatsoever. In fact he had instead enlisted Fran in her scheme to avoid Vaan and surrendered the use of his bedroom–his _sanctuary_ –to her.

At last, he realized that he could no longer hear the pounding rush of the water. Her singing, too, had ceased at some point. He shoved himself up from his chair and proceeded down the hallway, stopping at last before his door to listen for any sound from within.

There was nothing. No rustling of clothes, no footsteps. He knocked gently upon the door, calling out, "Penelo?"

Again, nothing. Not a blasted sound from within to indicate that she had even heard him. And he was stricken by a sudden fear that perhaps some ill had befallen her. She might've slipped in the shower, might've fainted due to blood loss.

He didn't even know if that gash upon her leg had been cleaned and treated.

He caught the doorknob in his hand and twisted firmly. In her haste to avail herself of the bath, she hadn't even seen fit to lock the door. He pushed it open, strode inside, and paused as his breath shuddered out on a relieved exhale.

She had, it seemed, made it successfully out of the shower.

She had raided his wardrobe as well. From the bathroom, he heard a faint but steady drip-drip-drip – most likely her discarded clothing, having been washed and hung to dry.

To replace her garments, it would appear that she had pilfered one of his shirts from his wardrobe. Shewas stretched out upon his bed, her hair sleek and shining as it dried over his pillows, with her arms tucked close to her chest, her knees drawn up.

It couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen minutes since she had fallen asleep, but her breaths were soft and regular. Relaxed in sleep, her face had lost its pinched, wary look. Her eyelashes were sooty, sweeping down over her cheeks to cast shadows upon them, her brows drawn in a vaguely petulant expression.

The gash on her ankle was still bleeding; tiny droplets had soaked through his sheet, spreading a small stain of crimson across the pristine white linen. And somehow he couldn't even summon up enough irritation even to feign anger. Instead he swept into the bathroom, searching beneath the sink for the first-aid kit he kept on hand.

There were bandages and antibiotic ointment and gauze pads; he collected a bit of everything and shucked the sterile pads out of their wrappers.

The bed depressed beneath his weight as he sat at the foot of it, and she murmured testily in her sleep, her brows jerking.

He lifted the bottom of the sheet, peeling it carefully back to avoid pulling at her rent flesh. At last her foot was exposed, blood smearing her ankle from the wound down to her toes. With a muttered expletive, he soaked a bit of gauze in water and sponged at her blood-slicked flesh.

It had to have hurt dreadfully; the iron manacle had yanked a six-inch gash in her ankle. But then...he thought that maybe she had sustained so much damage there already that one more wound simply didn't register. It was possible that she'd long since lost the feeling in it; that much scarring meant repeated injuries, and nerve damage was a distinct possibility. He wondered how many times Bartaan had administered a similar punishment.

Rather often, he thought, stroking the pad of his thumb along the raised circle of scar tissue that stretched for a good two inches on either side. That rage-invoking thought he cast aside, deciding that he was better off not thinking about it given the state of fury it incited.

She had winced, however, as he swiped a decent amount of ointment across the wound, so perhaps she did feel it after all. Perhaps she just hadn't wanted to give Bartaan the satisfaction of a response to it. He hoped so, and he rather admired her for it.

He unrolled a length of bandage and gently wound it around her ankle, hoping that her ruined flesh would knit cleanly. The bandage would have to be changed out, of course, but he rather thought that she could see to it when she woke.

Because he didn't quite have the heart to wake her himself.

As he stood, prepared to retire to the deck and set a course for somewhere new, she mumbled beneath her breath, "Sorry."

He turned, baffled. "Hmm?"

"Sorry," she repeated on a yawn. "I didn't get much sleep. Bartaan kept knocking things against my door. He does that, sometimes, when I don't make as much money as he expects me to."

Those deep purple smudges beneath her eyes – they weren't just from too many late nights and a lack of sleep. They were from a _torturous_ lack of it. He wondered if she had any idea that sleep deprivation was a common method of torture for captured enemies in war times.

"I just...I just meant to lay down for a minute. And then I couldn't get up," she murmured. She extended her arms in a trembling stretch, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. "Been years since I've had a bed. Much less a pillow."

He should've killed Bartaan when he'd had the chance. He stifled the guttural growl that rose in his throat, gentling his voice instead to respond, "It's all right; you've been through quite an ordeal."

"Shouldn't have taken your room." Her lashes fluttered as if she were desperately attempting to lift her lids, but they remained stubbornly closed. She pinched her lips against a yawn, pointed her toes and arched her back as if struggling to jar herself into wakefulness.

"I've no need of it at present," he said. "You should rest."

As if it were all the permission she needed, she wilted once again and sighed heavily. "Thanks," she said. Then, thoughtfully, "You know, you were the very last person I would have ever expected to come."

"And why is that?"

A soft chuckle. "Well...you're not really the sort, are you?"

"The sort for what? Dramatic rescues?" He folded his arms over his chest, wondering whether or not he ought to be offended.

"No, no," she demurred. "Dramatics, absolutely. But _that_ was something else. You wagered the _Strahl_."

He chuckled. "She was never in any danger."

"Marked cards," she mused thoughtfully. "I should've known."

"Yes, you should have. As if I would be foolish enough to embroil myself in a wager without hope of success. I've been around often enough to know that an honest tavern owner is akin to a mythical creature. I'd've been a fool to depend upon luck for a wager of that magnitude." He watched her shoulders hunch in amusement, the hint of a smile lingering about her mouth.

"Sorry I kicked you, then," she said. "It's just that...well, it had been three years. I gave up hope of being found ages ago." Another sigh. "Really should have strangled him before now."

But she would never have gotten away with it. With Bartaan's insistence upon keeping the keys pinned over the bar, she would never have had a prayer of escaping before someone arrived. And in these parts of the world, where the only law a man followed was that of his own determination, there was no telling what might've happened to her had she attempted it.

She stretched out onto her stomach, pressing her cheek into the pillow. Her hair haloed her head, drying into sleek blond ringlets, so smooth and perfect that he suspected she must have filched his comb to pick out the tangles.

Smothering a yawn with one hand, she asked, "How did you find me?"

"Blind luck, as it happens." He braced his shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. "All told, we've been searching for two weeks now."

" _We_?" She thrust herself up onto one elbow and cradled her chin in her palm. "Who's _we_?"

"Myself, Vaan, and Fran. Fran and I...happened to run into Vaan whilst we were in Galina." Not precisely a lie, but certainly not the truth, either.

"Oh." Her lips pursed into a frown, her sooty lashes swept downward briefly to shade her eyes. "Did he tell you...?"

He inclined his head.

With a groan of dismay, she collapsed back, burying her face in the pillow. She let loose a string of what must've been expletives were he to judge by the tone, but her voice was muffled and unintelligible.

"Come, now, you're hardly the first naive young girl to run off with a suitor," he said.

A guttural snarl issued forth; her fingers clenched his pillow so hard he was surprised she had not torn it open. "Probably not," she gritted out. "But how many _naive young girls_ run off to get married only to be traded for the cancellation of a debt owed?"

He drew in a swift, infuriated breath. "Your _intended_ left you there?"

She heaved a sigh and closed her eyes. "It was just business to him. He spent a couple of minutes talking to Bartaan, and then he just...walked out. I thought maybe he'd left something on his airship, but he never came back. And then Bartaan told me he'd abandoned me." Her lips twisted wryly. "Bartaan offered me a drink, and I took it – I really should have known better. He'd laced it with something, probably a sedative. I woke up locked in that manacle."

Balthier scraped his hand over his mouth, growling, "You're right; you _should_ have strangled him before."

She gave a husky little laugh devoid of mirth. "It would have been suicide," she said. "But I think if I had had to put up with him for much longer...I might not have cared." Another sigh, so fierce that her entire body wilted with it. "I was there for three years," she said. "I really thought...I really thought no one would ever look."

Balthier made a rough sound in his throat, unwilling to admit that he _had_ been looking - or rather, he had been sending hired men out to keep tabs on her. It simply wasn't the sort of thing that one brought up. Instead he said, "Vaan said you had run off to be married. It wasn't that he wasn't looking for you; it was that he didn't know he _ought_ to be looking for you – until he tried to find you and discovered that you had never made it back to Rabanastre."

She shrugged, and the loose neckline of his shirt slipped off her shoulder. For an instant, sleek, milk-white skin was bared before her hair tumbled over and obscured it once more. In the natural light pouring through his bedroom window, the deep smudges beneath her eyes were more pronounced. There was a bruise high on her cheek, close to the dark circles that rimmed her eyes that he had not noticed before. But now it was stark against her freshly-scrubbed, pallid cheek. She looked like a little ghost, too pale to be flesh and blood.

Three years in the darkness of a rough-and-tumble tavern might do that to a person, he supposed.

She drew in a deep breath as if steeling herself for something. "Do you think you might...maybe _not_ mention any of this to Vaan?"

He tilted his head to the side, studied her closed posture, the way she chewed nervously at her bloodless bottom lip. "Because the two of you parted on less than amiable terms?"

Her eyes slid away; her fingers plucked at a bit of loose thread on the sheet. "I burned some bridges," she admitted. "It's just...he was _right._ He was right all along, and that stings. I can't face him just yet." She ducked her head, and her bright hair briefly shielded her eyes. "I mean...I guess I just don't _want_ to face him just yet."

"He only wants to know that you're safe," he found himself saying. "He's been worried for you." As worried as Balthier himself had been. Perhaps more, given their longstanding friendship.

"I know," she said. "But I just _can't_ right now." Her shoulders slumped listlessly. "I don't want to be an imposition. You can just...just drop me off at the nearest city. I'll make my own way home." She pressed a cold hand to her cheek, her lashes fluttering.

Poor child; she was clearly exhausted. He felt like the worst kind of villain, keeping her from her badly needed rest.

"We'll discuss it later," he said brusquely. "You ought to get some sleep. In the meantime, I will hold my peace."

"Thank you," she said. And then, as he flicked the edge of the blanket up and over her, she reached out to clasp his wrist. "Really," she said. "Thank you. I might've been there for years still if it wasn't for you. I don't know what possessed you to come, but I'm glad you did."

He did not want her gratitude; it was too paltry an emotion to satisfy him. But the fingers that were curled around his wrist were cool and gentle, and altogether too unsettling. " _Rest_ ," he reiterated, carefully extracting his wrist from her grip. He cupped her shoulder and urged her back until at last she relaxed, sinking back into the downy softness of the mattress.

Her breath feathered out on a gusty sigh; she threw up one arm to shield her eyes and twisted onto her side away from him, performing a little wiggle that wedged her into the mattress and tucked the blanket tight around her. It was only moments before her breaths were deep and even and the tension that drew her shoulders taut at last eased.

And he found himself creeping silently from his own room so as not to disturb her slumber.

* * *

Balthier picked up the comm and typed in the code for the _Galbana's_ frequency, pinging their communications systems to respond. As he had expected, Fran promptly opened the lines of communication, and her voice crackled over the comm.

"Balthier," she said, in the sort of touchy, out-of-sorts tone that lead him to believe that Vaan was working on fraying her last nerve. "What news?"

"Is Vaan around?" he asked, sinking back into his chair, the comm cradled in his right hand.

"At the moment he has gone provisioning. We've managed to cobble together a list of prospective–"

He interjected, "I've found her."

For a moment there was silence. At last, the line crackled to life once again. A terse, "In what condition?" rumbled through.

"Well enough, given the circumstances," he said. "She was being kept on as a servant at a tavern. It seems that Archadian boy she ran off with–Raen, I believe that was his name–left her there in lieu of payment on his debts. She's been there for the past three years."

" _Three years_ she's paid the debts of a man who abandoned her?"

Balthier supposed Vaan must really have been getting to her; so rarely did she display even the tiniest hint of emotion and yet he could _hear_ the disbelief plainly in her voice.

"Not willingly," he clarified. "The owner of the tavern had her chained up like a pet on a leash."

Fran's voice responded promptly, seething in its intensity. "Does he yet live?"

"Yes, more's the pity. He's quite lucky I didn't discover the whole story _before_ I absconded with her." Even just the thought of that miserable excuse for a man had Balthier's free hand twitching toward his weapon. "She's sleeping rather peacefully at the moment, but I must ask that you not relay this information to Vaan. She says she's not yet prepared to face him."

Fran made an annoyed sound deep in her throat. " _Must_ I be saddled with him still longer?"

Against his better judgment, Balthier felt a grin edging up the corners of his mouth. "Never say you cannot handle one foolhardy young hume," he chided. "I thought you were made of stronger stuff than that." After all, she'd managed to put up with _him_ through his hellish teenage years and then some.

"Patience is a virtue that I possess in limited quantity at the moment," she admitted wryly. "I confess, I had thought it would be a simple matter to keep Vaan in line. But I swear you never gave me half so much trouble. He has made quite the name for himself as a pirate, it would seem."

"Yes, he had mentioned it," he replied. "Is he any good?"

"He takes risks that _you_ would think twice to take," she sniffed. "He has no sense of self-preservation, no discretion."

Still, he thought that beneath the annoyed toner of her voice, there was a sliver of what might have been interest. It had been years since she had last experienced anything that might accurately be termed 'challenging.' And perhaps taking a reckless young sky pirate was precisely the sort of thing she needed to bring a bit of adventure back into her life. Gods knew that he had been dragging her down for months now. She had not enjoyed their sabbatical, had longed for adventure and excitement.

"Fran, I'm afraid I'm going to need you to keep him occupied a while long. Tell him whatever you must – but keep him out of Penelo's hair for just a while." He hesitated. "She needs a bit of time to recover herself, I think."

Fran sighed heavily. "I will do ask you ask. But I do not know how long I can keep him from pursuing the matter himself." An aggravated sound crackled over the line. "How am I to keep a reckless young boy from meddling in matters he ought not?

Balthier chuckled. "Whatever you did with me, I suppose. It ought to be a breeze for a seasoned veteran like you."

"Balthier, I am _not_ a nanny," she snapped. "I do not raise children, I train pirates. And this one is as wild as they come. His behavior merits a _zookeeper_ , not a mentor."

Balthier coughed to disguise a laugh. "Box his ears if he steps out of line."

A beat of silence, and then: "Do you think it wise?"

"Fran, _anything_ that puts that puppy in his place is wise. He's run wild too long, and he'll get himself killed if he keeps at it." And Penelo, too, if eventually she should choose to rejoin him. "Reel him in."

A soft sound of distaste. "I will do what I can, but I make no promises. Do I continue to let him search for her?"

"It might be for the best," he said. "I shall keep you informed, but at the very least I should like to give her a bit of time to determine her course. When I have safely escorted her to her chosen destination, I will let you know and we can make plans to reconvene."

A heartfelt sigh. "It cannot come soon enough." Faintly in the background, there was the sound of the dock engaging. "He's returned," she said darkly. "Call when you have stowed your passenger safely, and do extend my regards."

The call cut off before he could respond; Fran was likely scraping together a bit of time to scrub clean the log just on the off-chance that Vaan might question her about a call from the _Strahl_.

Balthier stretched out in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. There was no way of knowing how long Penelo would sleep, but he supposed he would have to stop somewhere for food, since he'd let the provisions aboard the _Strahl_ dwindle to practically nothing.

At the very least he could see her properly fed and attired before he returned her to Rabanastre. She deserved that much, having survived three years in that hellhole, believing that no one would ever come for her. That lost hope had had a profound affect on her; she was another person entirely, now.

And he closed his eyes and mentally compared them: the effervescent young girl who had frolicked in a storm of snowflakes for the pure joy of it, and the woman who had strangled a man into unconsciousness with a length of chain.

The woman had been born only through the girl's traumatic death, when a callous fool had recklessly slashed her fragile heart with his betrayal.

And the whole of Ivalice was the poorer for the loss.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun had dipped over the mountains in the distance when the _Strahl_ at last reached its destination and began a slow descent. Over the rise of lush green hills shadowed by the swiftly falling night, the towering walls of Valenta –the capitol city of Rozarria –bloomed upward, stretching toward the sky.

It was the birthplace of Al-Cid Margrace; a sprawling metropolis just a few miles shy of Dalmasca, where the hills and sweeping plains ceded to sparse dirt and then, on Dalmasca's side of the border, vast stretches of dunes and sand. This time of night, the last of the sun's rays glinted upon the desert sand in the distance, creating a shimmering backdrop for the elevated city, as if it were floating in a sea of endless stars.

On the approach toward the Aerodrome, the aviation tower hailed the _Strahl_ to direct Balthier to the nearest open dock. It was a smooth and simple descent, the glossair rings softening out the minor turbulence into an even glide. Even the touch-down was as gentle as landing on a cloud. The ramp, however, was a different matter entirely; it produced a shrill metallic buzz as it extended down to the dock, clanking as it connected at last.

He winced as a muffled groan reverberated down the hall. If Penelo _had_ been asleep, she was most certainly awake now. Moments later, the door of his bedroom slammed open and Penelo tottered out listlessly, scrubbing at her eyes like a child. She drifted down the hall unsteadily, emerging on the deck, where she thrust her arms over her head, arched her back, and yawned.

"What time is it?" she mumbled as she settled into an empty seat, pillowing her head on her folded arms.

"Near to eight," he said, averting his eyes as she tugged the hem of his shirt down over her legs and tucked her knees beneath her.

Another groan, lost into the crook of her elbow, where her face was buried. " _Too early_."

For a moment he was perplexed – and then he realized that she had spent the last few years slaving away in a tavern. She'd been on a night schedule for the purpose of entertaining patrons while the tavern was at its busiest; probably she was used to sleeping through the day so that she might be rested and alert through the early hours of the morning.

"You ought to stay aboard," he said. "But I've got some business that I must attend to in the city." Not the least of which would be acquiring her some garments that didn't bare the length of her legs to all and sundry.

Her head popped up, at once alert. "The _city_?" she asked, as if it were a word with which she was unfamiliar. "Which city?"

"Valenta," he said. "It's on the border of -"

"Valenta!" She shook off the remnants of sleep that clung to her shoulders, shoving herself up from the chair. "I always wanted to go, but I didn't get the chance before..." Her voice trailed off; she performed an awkward little shuffle-step, clasping her hands behind her back. "Did you know they have hanging gardens? Literal _hanging_ ones? I've heard they're suspended above the city, and you have to take a waystone to get to them."

"They do indeed have hanging gardens which are accessible via waystone," he confirmed. "But you're hardly dressed for an outing, pet."

She glanced down, frowning, considering her current garment. "My clothes are probably dry by now," she said.

He arched a brow. "I sincerely doubt it. There's not been nearly enough time."

"Well, _mostly_ dry," she amended. "Dry enough, anyway, surely." She traipsed away, ostensibly to check on them, but he suspected that she would don them even did they remain entirely sodden. Somehow it did not seem likely that she would wish to spend more time than absolutely necessary surrounded by walls when she might venture out into the world for the first time in years.

She wanted to see Valenta. He supposed it was the least he could offer her. He needed to replenish the _Strahl's_ provisions and acquire her some clothing, and she needed open air and _not_ to be confined to a closed space. He allowed that it would be easier to have a clothier take her measurements in person rather than try to approximate them, besides. So their purposes aligned, for the time being.

"I'm ready," she trilled as she appeared once more on the deck, having managed to wrangle on her still clearly wet clothing. The threadbare blouse, while clean at last, was wrinkled and spotted, the hem of her shorts had frayed to fringe which was plastered to her thighs. He watched as a droplet of water eased free of the soggy hem and traced a path down the length of her right leg.

Her feet were still bare. Likely because her shoes had fallen to pieces ages ago, and there had been no need to replace them, as she hadn't been out of that filthy tavern in years. He dug his fingers into his palms in a futile effort to quell the anger that surged once again to the forefront of his mind.

But she had to have something to wear, and anything of his would swallow her dainty feet and make walking uncomfortable at best. He'd have to pilfer something of Fran's for the cause, provided there was anything sensible to be had.

"A moment," he said. "I'll see if I can't find some shoes in Fran's room."

Her fair brows arched toward her hairline. " _Fran's room_?"

"Of course. Where else did you imagine I would find her things?"

She shrugged, an awkward, one-shouldered movement. "I suppose...I thought you two shared a room."

Taken aback, he inquired, "Why should we share a room? There are two bedrooms aboard the _Strahl_. We live in each other's pockets enough as it is; we hardly need to share a _bedroom_."

A flush heated her cheeks, washing her face with brilliant color. She hooked her thumbs into the hem of her shirt, rocking back on her heels. "Well, I thought...I mean, I assumed..."

Comprehension struck. "You thought we were lovers," he said on a chuckle.

Her lips pursed into an annoyed frown. "Well, it wasn't really a leap in logic," she snapped. "Anyone would have thought so!"

"For the gods' sake, she practically raised me," he said. "I can't imagine anything less conducive to romance." He paused. "You've pawed through my things already; surely you must've made note that my drawers contained none of Fran's clothing."

"I didn't _paw_ through your things; I borrowed a single shirt! It was the first thing I saw when I opened the wardrobe!" She crossed her arms over her chest, scowling as if he had unfairly maligned her. "It was the first - and _only_ \- place I looked, so, no, I didn't note the absence of Fran's clothing."

"My mistake; you've only pawed through _some_ of my belongings," he chided.

She huffed. "Well, what _else_ should I have done? Would you rather I'd gone about naked?"

 _Definitely._ He cleared his throat and grumbled, "Don't be ridiculous." Where the hell had _that_ thought come from? "Shoes," he managed, shoving himself out of his chair. "I won't be a moment."

She eyed him askance and sidled out of the way, dropping into a chair to allow him to pass unobstructed down the narrow corridor.

He slipped into Fran's room and slid open the door of the shallow closet. Any of Fran's footwear would almost certainly be too big for Penelo; they would be too big for virtually any hume, as they were custom crafted to accommodate her clawed feet. But unless he missed his guess, she would have a few pairs that _might_ well do.

Sure enough, buried in the back of the closet beneath a veritable mound of stilettos were a pair of sandals with comparatively low heels. He snagged his fingers around the straps and tugged them free. Though they were larger than would comfortably fit Penelo's feet, the straps could be adjusted to fit well enough.

He ducked out of Fran's room and up the corridor to sling the shoes toward Penelo. She caught them in one hand –really, she had admirable reflexes –and glanced skeptically at them.

" _Really_?" she drawled. "They might as well be snowshoes."

"Beggars cannot be choosers. Would you rather go without?" He folded his arms across his chest and braced his back against the doorframe.

She wrinkled her nose. "No, I suppose not," she sighed, kicking up her right foot and wiggling her toes. "Took forever to pick the splinters out of my feet and just as long to scrub them clean. I'd rather stay clean for a while."

She adjusted the straps, yanking them tight as she could, and yet still she wobbled as soon as she rose to her feet. For a moment she tottered awkwardly, pinwheeling her arms to keep her balance. Though her gait was clumsy at best, as wobbly on the low heels as if they _were_ stilettos, she cast him a wry glance and said, "I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. Let's go!"

He was happy to oblige, sliding free the interior lock on the door to the ramp and yanking the handle to thrust the door out and open. Immediately, the sweet, rich scent of roses rushed in to fill the cabin.

" _Ohhh_ ," Penelo breathed reverently.

"The gardens," he said. "They must be growing roses this year." He gestured toward the door, an indication that he would follow along behind her. "The scent of whatever's been planted for the year permeates the city; gave me hell a few years back when they planted lavender."

She tossed an inquisitive glance over her shoulder.

"Allergic," he supplied. "I sneezed for days, even after I'd left the city. Damned flowers were everywhere. I _still_ find the occasional stray bud. Must've been blown in through the ventilation system." He closed up the _Strahl_ behind them, locking the door from the outside. "But I've no such affliction in regard to roses, thank the gods. And a good thing, too, for they'll overrun the whole of the city. Decorating pastries, flavoring teas, sewn into sachets to scent linens."

"That sounds wonderful," she sighed, clutching the ramp's railing in a white-knuckled grip as she eased unsteadily down the ramp.

"Just give it a day or two; you'll be sick unto death of them." He glanced up; the open roof of the Aerodrome revealed the black night sky peppered with brilliant stars.

"Oh," she said, "I promise you, I will never get sick of flowers. I've missed them–the smell, the softness of the petals...but the colors most of all." Carefully she stepped off the ramp onto the platform. "For three years, everything's just been _brown_. Brown walls, brown floor, brown dirt." She lifted a hand to shove her hair back from her face. Though it had dried in the intervening time between her shower and now, she had nothing to tie it back with, and so it was a disordered mass of curls in constant threat of obscuring her eyes.

A strong wind rolled in through the roof, whistling along the walls of the Aerodrome, sweeping through the rows and blowing her hair once more into her eyes. She spluttered, plucking the strands away to shove them over her shoulders, and in the wake of the wind, gooseflesh bloomed along her arms.

Her clothes were still wet; the wind was plastering the sodden fabric to her skin, evoking tiny shivers. Full night had long since fallen, and the temperature was dropping steadily. Clean, dry clothing would be priority one. Thereafter, food. She looked as if she might blow away with the wind – but then he supposed that a prolonged stay indoors would have the habit of rendering a body pale and thin.

Still, her spirits were unflagging. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child, all enthusiasm, impatient to get out of the Aerodrome and into the city proper. And yet somehow she managed to match her pace to his without complaint.

And she sighed as they exited the Aerodrome and the cool night wind kissed her cheeks. She turned her face to the soft glow of the moon for just a moment, and its light turned her hair a luminescent silver.

"Where to?" she asked at last, after she'd drawn a deep breath of the rose-perfumed air.

"You desperately require some clothing," he replied. "And Valenta is the capitol – there is surely a shop open somewhere, even this time of night."

For a moment her lips pursed, then drew into a bewildered frown. "I've got clothes," she said, with a flippant gesture to her current garments.

He refrained from making a disdainful snort. Barely. "Years ago, those might've been clothes. Now, they're not fit for rags. And they're still wet." He turned down a side street, and she trailed a few steps behind. "You'll have new."

"These are fine," she said. "It's really not that cold. I don't need new clothes."

He turned abruptly to face her, scrutinizing her in the pale light of the nearest streetlamp. "You're shivering."

"It's only a bit chilly," she protested. "And, well..."

He waited, expectant.

"I don't have any money," she grumbled at last.

"How could you have? That bastard tavern keeper's been fleecing you out of it for the past three years."

"How am I supposed to buy clothing?" she snapped, as if he were dense.

"I never said you were. For the time being, I am responsible for you – I will purchase the clothing." And he turned once again, expecting her to follow.

She did, but he had the feeling that she did not consider the matter settled, as he did. Sure enough, a moment later: "Now, look, Balthier. I don't need you to purchase new clothes for me, and you're not responsible for me."

"Until you are safely back in Rabanastre, yes, I am."

"Rabanastre?" She halted. "Who said I wanted to go back to Rabanastre?"

"Don't you?" He cast a glance over his shoulder, saw the arched brows, the rounded lips.

"No," she said. "Not particularly, anyway. I spent most of my life there, why should I want to return?"

"It's your home."

And she shrugged. "It's just a place I lived. I grew up on the streets; I don't have a home." Her gaze flicked briefly around, taking in the cobblestone street, the clean glass windows of the storefronts, the evenly spaced streetlamps that cast warm light. "This place is as good as any other. All I asked was a ride to a city. You can consider your obligation ended."

But he didn't. And he didn't want to. He had expected at least another day or so in her company. He might even have been looking forward to it – after all, she had slept away the journey to Valenta. Was he to lose her so soon?

They were at an impasse, and he had not the words to say to persuade her differently. He expected he'd thrown up a mark against himself already, with his overbearing attitude. Probably she had had enough of men telling her what to do.

A minor scuffle broke out down the street, where a fruit vendor was closing down his cart for the night. A man's sharp reprimand shattered the silence, and he saw Penelo's shoulder go stiff with tension.

"If you ain't gonna buy it, shove off," the vendor snarled.

Penelo had lifted herself into her toes to peer over Balthier's shoulder and he, too, turned to look.

A boy of about eight stood, clutching a threadbare burlap sack, holding a pittance in coin in the palm of his hand. "Please, sir," he said, "will this buy a few apples?"

Balthier could see from the twisted sneer on the vendor's face that it would not, and the man clearly had no patience for a child that, from the looks of his ragged clothing, was a street urchin – or near enough to one.

"I said, get going," the vendor repeated. He lashed out with a thick arm and cuffed the child, sending the poor lad sprawling backwards, scattering his paltry coins through the street.

Balthier heard Penelo's swift intake of breath, and in half a second she had passed him by, even if she moved awkwardly in her ill-fitting shoes. She skirted the young boy who had pulled himself onto his knees and was busying himself with collecting his coins with hands that trembled.

Penelo positioned herself carefully between the man and the boy, shielding the child from view. At first Balthier expected her to upbraid the man–she had always had a justice complex –and thus he was surprised when her voice, pleasant and soft, reached his ears.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in dulcet tones, "It's my first time within Valenta. Could you possibly direct me to the nearest clothier?" She rocked up onto her toes, her back arched subtly. Good gods; she'd practically shoved her bosom into the man's face!

"A...a clothier?" The words were a gruff repetition, directed to her chest rather than her face.

"Yes," she cooed. "I seem to have had a bit of a...mishap." She slipped the fingers of her right hand beneath the hem of her blouse, delicately lifting the sodden material away from her body, revealing several inches of smooth, white flesh to the vendor's riveted gaze.

With her left, she palmed an apple from the uncovered cart, slipping it behind her where she tossed it through the air. It landed softly and rolled down the street, coming to a gentle stop against the boy's leg. Baffled, he picked it up, stared at it a moment, and looked up just in time to see another apple come sailing his way. Balthier saw the surprise and delight cross his face as he collected the fruits and stuffed them into the waiting bag.

Balthier smothered his amusement as he watched Penelo work the man over, keeping him thoroughly engaged in conversation as she swiftly pilfered a feast in fruits and vegetables. The poor lad was struggling keep to keep up with the bounty she had tossed his way; soon the bag would be too heavy for him to lift did she continue her thieving.

But she had gotten daring, now. She braced her hip against the cart, twirled a lock of her silky hair with one hand and released a trill of bright, scintillating laughter. The vendor hung on the sound, eyes locked on her fingers, on the gleam of her fair hair in the warm light of the lamp.

She fisted her left hand around a cantaloupe, plucked it from the stack, rolled it down her spine, kicked her left foot back and caught it, dropping it gingerly to the ground to nudge it toward the boy. And then she pushed a bit too hard on the cart with her hip and the whole thing moved a few inches.

"Oh!" she cried as she stumbled towards it. "I'm so sorry!" Her hands reached out to catch the fruit that threatened to tumble off, and Balthier took that as his cue to help the lad collect the last of the fruit and secret him away in the nearest alley, lest the vendor grow suspicious.

The vendor reached out to steady Penelo, and she grasped at him as if he were the only stable thing in the world. At last she sighed, "How clumsy of me. It's these shoes." A gamine smile curved her lips. "You've been very helpful, sir."

"'Twas my pleasure, miss," the vendor said, ducking his head to catch another peek at her bosom.

"I'll bid you good night, then," she murmured. "Perhaps we'll meet again tomorrow?"

A grin passed over the vendor's face. "Ye'll know where to find me."

With a flutter of her fingers, Penelo turned her back on the vendor, striding back down the street towards where Balthier lingered with the child in the alley. He released a low whistle as she neared, and she turned towards the sound, entering the alley to find the both of them standing in the low illumination given off by a nearby second-story window.

The lad clutched the sack full of fruits and vegetables by the mouth, which would barely close. Penelo dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to him. "Let me see," she said, "Where did he hit you?"

The boy released his tight grip on the bag and gestured to the right side of his head. "J-just there, miss," he said. "I've had worse; it ain't nothing to worry for."

She ran her fingers gingerly through his hair, grimacing when he winced as if the pain were her own. "You'll have a goose egg," she sighed. "But I think you're right; no lasting damage."

The boy cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed even in the dim light. "I'm much obliged, miss," he said. "This'll keep me and mum for a week or more."

Her face was wreathed in a smile; she ruffled the lad's tousled hair, careful to avoid the injured spot. "You're a growing boy," she said. "You need a bit more than fruits and vegetables, I expect."

She fished in her pocket and pulled out a silk purse that jingled in her palm. Loosening in the strings, she tugged it open, grasped the lad's hand, and tipped half the contents into his palm.

The gold coins glinted; by the way the boy's eyes widened, Balthier guessed that it was likely more gil than he'd seen in one place in his life. Penelo tucked the coin purse back in her pocket and closed the boy's fingers over the mound of coins.

"You should see if there's a butcher open still. Bring back a roast for your mum," Penelo suggested. "Maybe stop at a sweets shop?"

"Oh, miss, I couldn't," he said. "The fruit, miss – that's more than enough already."

"I won't take back the gil," she said. "And it's not my coin, anyway. I nicked it off him. That great brute, he deserved it for striking you. And you can have your own revenge – every time you see him, you'll know he paid for it."

"Oh, but –"

"I'm keeping some coin myself; you haven't got it all," she reminded him. "I've got to have a new set of clothes. But I imagine what you've got in your hand will keep you and your mum comfortably for a while."

"More than a while, miss," the lad breathed. "This could keep us months."

"Well, then. You'd better run along; he'll probably notice his purse is missing sooner than later, and he'll know I snatched it. We'll all want to be far away when he figures it out. Can you carry all that?" She indicated the bag.

"Yes, miss...but it's a near thing." He grinned. "It was real fun, watching you pull all this out right from under his nose. He didn't suspect a thing!"

She coughed to disguise a chuckle; the light of admiration in the boy's eyes spoke too clearly to be ignored. The worst thing she could do was to teach the boy to idolize thieves. "Yes, well, you ought to make your mum proud and get an education and an honest job. Leave the thieving –and the consequences thereof –to the professionals, hm?"

The boy bobbed his head in an abashed nod, gripped the mouth of the sack as tightly as he could manage, and slung it over his shoulder.

"I'm certain your mother will be expecting you back soon," Balthier said. "You had best run along home now."

"I will, sir." The boy tucked the coins into his breast pocket, packing them tightly enough so as not to jingle, which might draw the attention of unsavory characters. "Thanks again; my mum'll be so thrilled!" Quick as he could manage beneath the weight of the heavy sack, he darted off down the alley, ducked around a corner, and was gone.

Penelo climbed to her feet, dusting off her hands, looking so pleased with herself that it grated on Balthier's nerves.

"Dangerous, what you did back there," he said.

She shrugged. "He was too busy staring at my chest to notice. It's only dangerous if you get caught – and I don't."

The confidence in those words suggested she'd picked more than her fair share of pockets. He couldn't decide whether he was meant to be proud or furious. She'd taken risks tonight, for the sheer fun of it. She could have contended herself with apples, plums, apricots - but no, she'd had to go after the sodding _melon_ , just to see if she could.

That she _could_ didn't merit consideration; she had placed herself in danger to show off for a child, to thumb her nose at a bully. A bully whose hands were like hocks of ham; the man probably could have strangled her to death in less time than it would have taken to scream.

She patted the pocket in which she had stashed the pilfered purse. "Now that I've got a bit of gil, I can afford some new clothes."

His brows lifted. "You would rather steal than accept a gift?"

She sniffed, turning her dainty nose up at the idea. "In my experience, there's no such thing as a gift from a man."

"What the devil is _that_ supposed to mean?"

She cast a scathing look in his direction, as if his obtuseness had annoyed her. "Just what it sounds like, I expect. Gifts come with expectations. I don't care to be indebted to anyone."

"You _truly_ believe that I would expect something from you in exchange?" He imbued the question with precisely the right amount of icy disdain; her lips pursed as she considered the question.

"I'd rather not take the chance," she said, finally. "It's irrelevant now, of course, as I can pay my own way." She side-stepped him, out of the circle of light cast from above, toward the alley entrance. "The vendor kindly gave me directions to a shop that's still open; I can find my own way from here. If you'll excuse me."

"I won't."

"What?" She pivoted, surprised.

"Excuse you." He crossed his arms over his chest. "It's well after dark, and you would be alone in an unfamiliar city, without weapons, at the mercy of any brigands who chanced to cross paths with you."

"I can take care of myself," she snapped.

"Oh, yes. You were clearly doing so well for yourself in that tavern." It was a low blow; he saw the narrowing of her eyes, the clenching of her fists at her sides. She did not need to be reminded of the naïveté for which she had suffered already.

He made a rough sound in his throat and grated out, "My apologies; that was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was." Her voice was just as rough, as if she had choked out the acknowledgment.

He cleared his throat. "I shall not be leaving you to your own devices in strange city, so you may shove that thought out of your head right now."

"I don't need a babysitter," she chided. Her fists clenched and unclenched, as if she were imagining wrapping her delicate fingers around his throat and squeezing the life out of him. Absent the assistance of a solid iron chain, though, he didn't think she could manage it.

"And, might I point out, you are already indebted to me." He gestured vaguely. "I'm not really partial to the damsel in distress routine; it's a bit dramatic for my taste. Romantic rubbish. That, in addition to a swift escape, the use of my facilities, the loan of my shirt..." He ticked off her debts upon his fingers, fully conscious of the furious flush that heated her cheeks.

"What," she fairly growled, "do you want?"

"Dinner," he said. "It's been a good twelve hours since last I've eaten. Longer, I expect, for you."

"That's it?" Her tone was patently disbelieving.

"Dear girl, I don't require a debt to get a woman into my bed. It's difficult enough to get them _out_ of it as it is." He was blessed enough in looks that he had never had to purchase or coerce feminine companionship. And he had found, over the years, that women frequently lost themselves to the romance of piracy and let their fantasies sweep away their good sense.

"Dinner? Just dinner?" She eyed him skeptically.

"And conversation," he said. "I am curious, I confess, as to your plans for the future."

"I haven't made any." She nudged a pebble with the toe of her boot. "Until this afternoon, I didn't think I had one to plan for."

"We'll discuss it, then," he said. "Things have changed in the last few years. You must be curious."

She was; he saw it in her eyes, in the way they softened at the corners, her cornflower-blue irises warming.

"All right," she said at last. "Dinner. And then we party ways."

He wasn't ready to concede that much just yet, but it would be pure foolishness to admit to it. "Clothes first," he said. "Then dinner. And then...we shall see."


	7. Chapter 7

"You know," Penelo called from where she was shielded behind a curtain in the dressmaker's shop, "I don't think I liked the sound of that."

"Of what?" Balthier inquired, idly thumbing through the worn pages of a fashion catalogue – the only literature the shop had to offer.

She pitched the timbre of her voice low, reciting in a mocking impression of his Arcadian accent, " _We shall see_." A pause. "It's something papa used to tell me when I was little."

"Oh?" He abandoned the catalogue and devoted his full attention to the curtain, from which emanated rustling sounds - her old clothing being removed in favor of trying on new. As far as he could recall, this was the first allusion she had ever made to her past before the war. She had been an orphan for years before they had met and yet she had never, to his memory, spoken before of the family she had lost.

"Mm. He'd say it a lot to me, when I was young - _we'll see_. Whenever I wanted something and he didn't want me to throw a temper tantrum over not getting it, he'd tell me that. And it worked; I'd shut up about it, and he wouldn't have to deal with a bratty kid. And, generally, by a little later I would have forgotten all about it."

He smothered a chuckle behind his hand, amused. "Generally?"

"Generally," she repeated. There was the sound of a shoe slapping against the hard wooden floor, followed by a mild curse, and then at last she continued, "I asked him, once, what _we'll see_ meant, since it seemed like we never did. And do you know what he told me?"

"No, but I'm sure you plan to educate me," he said.

"He said that it didn't mean 'no' _now_ , it meant 'no' _later_."

He didn't bother to hide his bark of laughter then. "And what did you say to that?"

"Well, I was still very young at the time. I didn't understand what he meant by it. But I guess it was the easiest way for him to deal with me, huh? I had two older brothers; I suppose he'd learned how to manage children by the time I came around." The rustling ceased and the curtain fluttered as the edge was seized in her hand. She threw it back and stepped out of the tiny changing room, a pair of soft leather ankle boots clutched in her free hand. "So, I don't suppose you want to explain why, when I say we ought to part ways, and you tell me _we shall see_ , what I heard was _no_?"

He didn't, actually. Rather than respond to her query, he canted his head to the side, looked her up and down, and asked, "Is that really what you wish to purchase?"

She glanced down at her nondescript grey pants and blouse. "It's as good as anything else."

It was tragic; it was as if drab and mousy were all she knew. He fought for a neutral expression, certain that any indication of distaste would invoke her ire. "Are you certain you wouldn't prefer something more..." _Careful, now._ "...colorful?"

Her brows knitted in a frown. "I prefer to remain anonymous wherever possible," she said. "Flashy clothing attracts notice. You might flout convention, Balthier, but believe it or not, _most_ sky pirates prefer to keep their bounties as low as possible, and simple clothing can hide a person in plain sight. It keeps them from being a target for bounty hunters."

"It's not about _flouting convention_ ," Balthier sighed. "It's about making a name for oneself, building a reputation, making your mark on the world. There have been thousands of sky pirates, and there will be thousands more. Rather than to be merely one in a faceless crowd, I choose to be known, remembered. It's as close as one can get to immortality."

She made a scathing sound in the back of her throat. "Don't you think saving Ivalice merits its own slice of immortality?"

He waved vaguely, dismissive. "Not in the least, and I'll tell you that it didn't do my reputation any favors, either. We were minor players at best, and history will omit us completely ere long, I'm certain." He braced his hands on the arms of the chair and thrust himself out of the seat. "You can't merely aspire to a bit part in someone else's story, pet. You must make your own."

She dropped into the chair opposite him with a weary sigh, and plopped her old clothes in a pile on the floor, Fran's sandals landing atop them with a wet thump. "I don't need my own _story_ ," she grumbled, shoving her left foot into its boot. "I've only just gotten my life back. I just want to keep a low profile and _live_ it." She yanked on the other boot, wincing as it scraped over the bandage.

Before Balthier could respond, the proprietress bustled back into the room with a bag, into which she nudged Penelo's discarded wet clothing and Fran's borrowed sandals with an expression of mild distaste.

" _Thought_ you'd be wearing those out," she said, gesturing to Penelo's new clothing as she handed the bag over. "Though I do have better clothes, miss. I must say, I'd've never taken you for the sort to want something so plain." She clucked disapprovingly, fisting her hands on her hips.

Balthier resisted the urge to cast a patronizing glance in Penelo's direction and instead addressed the proprietress. "I told her she ought to get something brighter. Something in peach, perhaps?"

"Oh, _yes_ , sir," the proprietress said, clasping her hands together in relief. "I'd not want you to get the wrong impression of my shop; those are just what I keep on hand for the, er...less fortunate customers. I've just the thing –"

"That won't be necessary," Penelo said, "I've got what I want." She shoved herself to her feet, collecting the bag as she rose, and tugged open the pouch of gil she'd filched earlier. Before Balthier could get out even a single word of protest, Penelo stared him down, raised her eyebrows, and said, "Did you want dinner or not? Because you're about to talk yourself right out of it."

He was certain that the bite in her voice was intended to be intimidating, but it served only to amuse him instead. Making a show of acquiescence, he heaved a beleaguered sigh and said, "If you're determined to be difficult, settle your bill, and let's be off."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation as she poured coins from the pouch into her hand and counted out the appropriate amount of gil into the proprietress' waiting palm.

As she tucked the coins into her apron pocket, the proprietress addressed Balthier: "If you should succeed in changing her mind, sir, I've some lovely silks just in from Archadia. I'm quick with the stitching, and I employ several seamstresses. It wouldn't take more than a few hours to whip up something more fitting."

"Ah, well, there's the rub," Balthier said. "She's not as malleable as once she was, and so whether or not we return is entirely up to her." He cradled his chin in his hand, and, after a moment's pause, drawled in a long-suffering tone, "More's the pity."

" _If_ I should change my mind," Penelo said to the proprietress in as sweet a voice as she could manage, "I will certainly return." She cast a poisonous glare over her shoulder at Balthier. " _Without_ company."

Balthier smothered a snicker with his palm, rising to his feet. "Darling, you can't be trusted alone in a seamstress' shop. You've a propensity for the bland. I couldn't bear to let you return only to see you choose something equally drab." He stifled a grin as a hot tide of color seeped into her cheeks. Her fingers fairly creaked with strain as she flexed them, no doubt imagining wrapping them around his throat and squeezing the life out of him.

"I see you and your manners have long since parted company," she snapped.

He lifted his brows in mock innocence. "There was a time when you would have told me that honesty was a virtue."

"I don't think I was ever so self-righteous," she huffed in annoyance. Then, in a low voice, "I can only wonder what sins Fran has committed that would deserve being saddled with _you_ for a partner."

He shrugged, not overly concerned with her venomous tone. "I could ask the same for you with Vaan."

She blinked in surprise, likely not having expected such a blasé response. Her lips firmed and then pursed as she vacillated between exasperation and unwilling laughter. After a moment of wrestling with herself, she seemed to come to the conclusion that he was more incorrigible than irritating, and shook her head with a wry smile.

"Dinner," she said at last, in a darkling tone. "I don't have the energy to kill you now, so it'll have to wait until after."

And somehow, he found that he was not entirely certain that she was jesting.

* * *

The Promenade, Valentia's citycenter's main thoroughfare, was a wide, winding avenue that began at the gates of Oreil palace and ended at the public waystones used to transport the populace into the hanging gardens. It was paved perfectly smooth in deference to the thick flow of cabs and more or less constant foot traffic, and boasted filigreed street signs and massive gaslamps set ablaze from the very moment that dusk settled over the city.

Much to Penelo's chagrin, this was clearly the territory of the nobility, and so her clothing that had been chosen entirely for being unremarkable now made her very remarkable indeed. Amidst the teeming throngs of elegantly-dressed people, she felt like a drab little wren surrounded by so many peacocks.

As if he had sensed her discomfort, Balthier leaned towards her and said, sotto voce, "I _did_ try."

She gritted her teeth and muttered something terribly unkind beneath her breath, and he snickered, even though he couldn't possibly have heard. Skirting the wide halo of light from a nearby lamp the better to linger in the shadows and avoid notice, she grumbled, "I really don't think I can afford anything in this part of town."

He chuckled. "Not to worry; we won't be eating here. There's better to be found at more reasonable prices elsewhere in the city. These places–" he made a grand, sweeping gesture to the rows of restaurants lining either side of the streets, each packed with well-dressed patrons, "–cater to the gentry almost exclusively. I doubt we'd even gain admittance."

She halted in her tracks, arrested with confusion. "What are we doing _here_ , then?"

"I thought you would appreciate a tour of the city," he said mildly. "You _did_ mention the hanging gardens, and–"

"Stop. Just…stop." Her breath hissed through her teeth as she pressed her hand to her forehead, massaging away the frown lines that had creased her brow. "How does Fran manage to _not_ kill you every time you open your mouth?"

"Practice, I expect. Coupled with years of experience." He caught her elbow in a firm grip, directing her out of the flow of traffic and off to the side of the street. "But surely you can see now that _blending in_ isn't as simple as looking common. It's a matter of looking as though you belong wherever you may be."

She made a sound of latent fury in the back of her throat. "Balthier, I swear if you don't –"

A meaty hand seized her by the shoulder, cutting her diatribe off abruptly as she found herself shoved forward, colliding with Balthier's shoulder. Her fury instantly redirected, she whirled around to find herself facing a portly man who was bedecked in a velvet coat adorned with an overabundance of precious gems. In the flickering lamplight, the gems burned with brilliant inner fire. But their scintillating sparkle failed to atone for the sour, drooping face of their wearer. His receding hairline, poorly masked by what was clearly a wig, only accentuated the beady eyes deep-set beneath a heavy brow and surrounded by folds of excess skin. And he scowled at her, his thin lips carving deep grooves into his florid cheeks.

He wiped his sweaty palm upon his coat, sneering as if the mere act of touching Penelo had contaminated it, looking past her to direct his attention to Balthier. "You've got some nerve, bringing your doxy here," he said. "Her kind belongs in Lower Market. I'll not have my daughters subjected to her ilk on these streets."

With a pudgy hand that was overladen with glistening rings, he gestured behind him to two ladies of indeterminate age, both as rotund as their father, and just as gaudily dressed. They tittered behind their hands, looking Penelo up and down as if they had never encountered a creature like her before.

In her peripheral vision, Penelo caught Balthier stiffening as if he himself had been so insulted. He lurched forward, clearly prepared to do violence, until Penelo pressed a staying hand to his chest.

"No," she said in a seething tone, "Let _me_."

She had, after all, spent the last three years brawling with criminals and thugs. This ostentatious gentleman didn't present much of a threat, given that she had both youth and vitality as an advantage.

Balthier collected himself and shrugged as if it made no difference to him. He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, "See if you can't liberate some of those jewels, won't you?" And with his free hand, he pressed a small knife into her palm. Then, with a grand gesture, he waved her on to do as she would.

Secreting the knife from view, Penelo advanced on the man, who shrank back as if he had used up all of his courage on his initial confrontation. Probably he was used to being immediately obeyed by subservient lackeys and servants, and had no idea how to respond to those who weren't so cowed by his taunts.

"I am sick unto death," she snarled, "of self-righteous bastards, thinking they have the right to command me." A step forward; a corresponding flinch. "I have been called worse by better men, but I'll be damned if I accept such treatment from _you_."

The two girls let out terrified squawks as Penelo closed the distance between herself and their father, who had gone sickly pale, his ruddy cheeks providing the only color in his face. She seized the lapels of his coat, dragging him towards her with no small amount of effort.

"Y-you c-can't…" he choked through chattering teeth. "The guards…"

"You'll be dead the moment you scream," Penelo assured him blithely. Covertly, she palmed the knife, and with a swift _snick_ she sliced clean through the threads anchoring them to the coat, and three precious jewels in their gold settings slipped free of their moorings and dropped down her sleeve, where they lodged right up against her elbow. "Consider this a lesson in courtesy."

With her free hand, she snatched the wig from his head, revealing a shiny pate that clung bitterly to the last few strands of hair it possessed. The girls gasped in horror as Penelo tossed the wig into the street, where it was immediately trampled by oblivious passersby.

Penelo drew back her fist, and the man threw up his arms, cringing away from the expected blow, trembling violently. Another swift slice of the knife yielded yet more jewels that trickled down her sleeve. In mere seconds, the man's bejeweled coat was almost entirely divested of its gems – and he had never noticed a thing.

As the expected blow had failed to fall, eventually the man struggled with layers of fat and excess skin to crack open one eye. Penelo patted his cheek condescendingly, a humiliating mockery of his cowardice. Behind her, she heard Balthier disguise a chuckle with a cough.

"I would suggest that you return to your home immediately and consider yourself fortunate to escape with your life," Penelo said in a low, threatening voice. "Against my better judgment, I've decided to be merciful. I can't promise it will last, should I happen to see your face again."

His double chin wobbled as he nodded rapidly, heaving a sigh of relief.

"And consider this your warning – you are not above reproach. I would recommend keeping your hands – and your opinions – to yourself until they are requested. Not all will be as kind and forgiving as I."

"M-my apologies, miss," he squeaked. "I meant no disrespect."

Of course he had, but she allowed him his falsehood and released his lapels.

The very moment he was freed from her grasp, he skittered back far faster than she would have thought possible for someone of his size. His daughters immediately fluttered to him, crooning soothing words to him.

As Penelo turned away, Balthier fell into step beside her. "Beautifully done," he said.

She shrugged. "I really have been called worse. Water off a duck's back at this point." She shook her right arm, hearing the stones wash against one another, and grinned. "Got a small fortune off of him for my trouble."

"Perfect. Now you can afford some proper clothing _and_ dinner."

In the distance there was a horrified gasp, followed by a strident voice that cried, "Oh, Papa! Your beautiful coat!"

Time to make a swift escape. Penelo seized Balthier's arm and said, " _Run_."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, having successfully escaped anyone that might've been in pursuit, Penelo found herself seated across from Balthier in a quaint little tavern secluded down a side street in a primarily residential district. Without even asking what they desired, the owner had plunked down two mugs of hot cider from which fragrant steam rose in delicate whorls. The sweetly floral scent tickled her nose. Balthier had been correct; it seemed everything _was_ flavored with roses.

Penelo had been patiently waiting for a menu, right up until the time food arrived at their table, delivered by a plump, friendly-looking waitress.

She looked down at the soup contained within a bowl made of bread and topped with a healthy layer of cheese that had been set before her, and said, "Thank you, but I didn't…"

"Oh, you don't order here," the waitress laughed. "The owner chooses, and he always knows just what you need."

Penelo found herself the tiniest bit jealous of Balthier, who had found himself judged worthy of a thick slice of steak.

He merely gestured with his fork, and said, "Give it a go. He's never been wrong in my experience."

Heaving a sigh, Penelo picked up her spoon and dipped it into the soup, scraping a bit of the bread off the interior of the bowl, and popped it into her mouth. Onion soup – caramelized onions in a rich broth that crackled with pepper and hints of rosemary, balanced by mellow cheese and soft white bread into which slivers of dried rose petals had been mixed. Balthier's steak no longer held its appeal; perhaps the soup hadn't been what she had wanted, but it had been precisely what she had needed.

Balthier reached for his own spoon, ostensibly to filch a taste of her soup. She clenched her fork in her fist and made a stabbing motion.

"Point taken." He carefully set the spoon back on the table, as if leery of making any sudden movements that she might interpret as aggressive toward her meal.

Satisfied, she subsided and set back into devouring her meal. "How is Fran doing, these days?" He _had_ promised to share what she'd missed these past few years.

"Well enough," he said. "Ivalice is calmer, now, and so she feels less of a temptation to interfere in hume affairs in general. She contents herself with mine these days." She harangued him like a meddlesome mother, really.

"And the others?"

"Larsa remains well. He is still young, but since peace was brokered between Archades and Rabanastre, he continues to look to the queen for guidance. I think they work well together; they are stronger as allies than they would have been apart. With her majesty's prudence and the weight of Archades' formidable army, betwixt the both of them, they are a force to be reckoned with." He broke off a crust of bread and slathered it with honey-sweetened butter. "There has been talk, lately, of her majesty marrying again."

Penelo's head snapped up. " _Larsa_?"

Balthier choked on his roll. "Dear gods, no." Despite their friendship, he could not imagine a more mismatched pair. "Some nobleman from Landis, I believe. Last year, Larsa managed to convince his ministers to surrender Landis back to its people. The people who fled the heavy hand of the empire have returned to their homeland once more, and it's rumored that Ashe intends to marry one of them."

"Pity," Penelo said, a frown twisting her lips as she scraped the last of the soup from the bowl. "I would have hoped…well, she and Basch always seemed so close."

"Basch is still in Larsa's employ. They've been apart for five years now; I can't imagine that would be conducive to forging a relationship." Women, it seemed, were all the same – constantly reading deeper into things than they ought, ever searching for romance. He would not have suspected it of Penelo, considering that an ill-suited romance was what had brought her to this point.

"I know," she sighed, draining the dregs of her cider. "And there's the fact that he's still living as his brother, and surely it wouldn't be looked well upon that he's a prominent figure in Larsa's court."

"True," Balthier said. "There _is_ still some lingering anti-Archadian sentiment amongst Dalmascans – though who could blame them? Guiding the fledgling emperor is one thing; marrying a key player in his retinue would be quite another. No doubt the Dalmascans would rather ally with the Archadian Empire through treaties rather than marriage."

The waitress returned with two slices of cheesecake drizzled with a rich red syrup, which she set before them along with a tray containing the bill. Penelo fished out the pouch of coins as she carved out a bite, counting out enough to cover the bill as well as a generous tip. The cheesecake was dense and sweet, drenched in an aromatic syrup brewed from rose petals. Of course.

"You've become quite adept at thievery," Balthier remarked, after the waitress had collected her payment. "How many jewels did you manage to make off with?"

"Haven't had an opportunity to count," she said. "Will it cause a stir if I bring them out in here?"

"Not at all." He took a bite of his own dessert, barely stifling a beleaguered sigh when he discovered the rose syrup himself. "You might call this place a haven, of sorts, for, ah…those on the wrong side of the law. Which is not to say," he said firmly, "that it welcomes the sort of dishonorable louts to which you have become accustomed of late. More like…gentlemen thieves and the like. Beyond these walls, anyone is fair game. Within them, everything is sacrosanct."

Having just stolen a fortune in gems, it would have been hypocritical of her to mock the idea of 'gentlemen thieves,' and so she took him at his word and plucked out the handful of ill-gotten jewels and spread them out on the table between them. They glittered coldly in the light of the overhead lamps, but, true to Balthier's claim, they attracted no attention from other patrons.

"Hmm." Balthier studied the gems with a practiced eye, separating them out into two piles. "The fool got what he deserved. Thieves frequent even the upper class districts; he was practically begging to be robbed. You must've all but cleaned him out with this haul."

There was a note of pride in his voice, and she felt her cheeks heating at his approval. Not that she required it – but it had been so long since she had had anyone to even offer it. "I'll have to find a fence, but this should keep me for a while." She reached out to swipe the gems off the table, but he snatched at her wrist.

"Not so fast," he said. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, there." He released her wrist and gestured to the small pile – only three stones. "These are real. Two pearls and an opal. On the other hand –" He swept his hand to the right, passing it over the larger pile of stones, "– _these_ are paste. Admittedly _good_ paste, but paste nonetheless."

"Paste?" She blinked, baffled.

"Very pretty, very shiny, mostly worthless bits of glass." He smiled benevolently. "That's not to say they won't fetch a decent price, but it won't be nearly as much as you might have expected. A generous fence will pay at most ten percent of an item's true value. All told, you're due perhaps five hundred gil."

"So little?" Her face crumpled into a frown, disappointed she'd gone to such trouble for such a meager payoff.

"Come, now, consider the greater good – you've spared the whole of Valentia the unenviable fate of having to witness that ghastly man outfitted in such a garish coat." He passed a hand over his mouth, stifling a snicker.

She slouched in her chair with a sigh. "Yes, but…I was hoping to have funds to travel with."

He shrugged. "You can still travel. Currently I find myself at loose ends, absent a partner. With Fran otherwise occupied whipping Vaan into shape, hopefully molding him into some semblance of a proper pirate, there is an empty room aboard the _Strahl_."

She chuckled. "Yes; I'm exactly the sort you need for a partner."

"Do you know, I think you rather are."

The amusement fled from her face, banished by the fact that he seemed to _actually_ be serious. "That's ridiculous. I can't."

"Oh? Have you some better opportunity to pursue with your newly-acquired freedom?" He rested his elbows on the table before him, tenting his fingers.

Penelo had the most peculiar sensation that he was conducting an interview of sorts. "No, it's just…I'm years out of practice."

"And yet, you've retained enough ability to relieve a man of the gems sewn on his coat right beneath his nose, with him none the wiser. And that's to say nothing of your heist in the market earlier; I can't recall the last time I've seen such sleight-of-hand." The corners of his lips quirked upwards just a bit, amused by the memory.

"Well, yes," she said, "Pick-pocketing patrons paid off a good deal of my debt. But –"

"You fight well," he interrupted. "But only when necessary. You're not rash and reckless; you don't escalate to violence if there's no need for it."

"I would think that would be common sense," she said.

"You would be surprised," he replied grimly. "Regardless, you have the makings of a good pirate. With a bit of educating, you could be legendary." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I've come across some information – what could very well be the find of a lifetime. But I'll require someone I can trust along for the ride. And with Fran otherwise engaged…"

 _Oh_. He didn't want to have to waste time interviewing for a temporary partner – and they'd traveled together before, so he already knew she was trustworthy. All evening, he'd been studying her, assessing her value. And he was right – she _didn't_ have anything more pressing to attend to.

"What do you say? It's sure to be a very lucrative opportunity. Certainly enough for you to be an independent woman of means."

"I suppose I _do_ owe it to you," she said. "For rescuing me and all. I suppose I could accompany you – on a temporary basis – at least until Fran's done with Vaan."

And Balthier decided it would be best not to mention that, considering Vaan's lack of discipline and Fran's strict standards, it might be quite a long temporary partnership indeed.


	8. Chapter 8

"You're doing it wrong."

Affronted, Balthier swung around to face Penelo, who was leaning over his shoulder, peering at the _Strahl's_ navigation panel. "I beg your pardon?"

She gave a little huff and dropped into the seat beside him, gesturing to the screen that displayed their current altitude and speed. "Flying so low isn't fuel-efficient," she said. "The glossair rings have to pull more power, forcing the engine to work harder, and consuming more fuel. We _should_ be flying higher and slower. At this rate, we'll burn through a tank in just a few hours."

Balthier bit the inside of his cheek to force back the instinctive, ill-mannered response that rose in his throat. " _Be that as it may_ ," he settled on at last, "I am not in a position where I must economize on fuel consumption. And the view is nicer from here." To stress the point, he reclined back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and plonked the heels of his boots atop the nav console.

The _Strahl_ was currently skimming atop the glassy-smooth surface of the Oenalian Sea, just a hundred yards or so from the rocky shore, headed north toward Galina. Sunrise burnished the horizon, a bright patch of scarlet skittering across the sea. A pod of coastal dolphins breached the silky surface of the water ahead of them, and were quickly left behind in the _Strahl's_ wake. The water stretched out into the interminable distance, a deep, vivid blue interspersed with sandy shoals around which crowded schools of brilliantly-colored fish. Perhaps Balthier _had_ chosen the scenic route to get to their destination, but he captained his own ship, and it was his prerogative to do so.

Penelo jogged her knee up and down, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes focused out the massive windscreen, but not on anything in particular. Merely _out_. Her lips were pursed in annoyance, but if she had had anything to say, she kept it to herself. And still, her knee jogged up and down, up and down – like a nervous habit. A muscle pulled in her jaw, tight and tense.

"Alright, there?" he asked. Perhaps she was simply tired. True, she had slept most of the day away yesterday, but he imagined that she had a good three years of sleep to catch up on. Yet she had not retreated to Fran's room upon their return to the Aerodrome; instead she had insisted on staying up for what night remained. At first she had settled into a chair and pulled her legs beneath her, content to sit out the ride, but as the night had worn on, she had eventually jumped out of her seat to begin pacing anxiously.

"Fine," she said, in clipped tones. Her knee began bouncing even faster, and she unfolded her arms to clench the armrests, the fingers of her right hand tapping out a rapid tattoo against the smooth wood.

Good gods, she'd soon be climbing the walls.

At last she seemed to become aware of his perusal and caught herself, gripping the armrests and planting her feet firmly on the floor. "I don't…I don't like being inside," she said at last, in a small, hesitant voice. "I mean, if I can't…" Her voice squeaked out into silence. A pulse in her throat beat a frenetic rhythm, as if she'd been running for miles.

If there wasn't an easy avenue of escape, she meant. She had seen the same walls every day for the last three years because she had had no choice. She had tolerated the city reasonably well, given that they hadn't stayed indoors for more than a half an hour at a time, but here, in the _Strahl_ , she was confined once again out of necessity, and they had been flying for hours. She wasn't merely _irritable_ ; her nerves were shot through and she was on her very last of them, pretending a nonchalance she did not feel.

"Shall I set her down?" he inquired.

Her gaze jerked to him, brows arched high over wide eyes. "No…that's not necessary," she said, but the words came out rough and forced, scratching out of her throat like each of them had been a battle of its own. Her knuckles were white from the pressure she exerted upon the armrests, her fingernails carving divots into the once-pristine wood. And it simply wasn't in him to chastise her for her lack of care; the wood could be resurfaced – _she_ could not be repaired so easily.

Probably she had grown accustomed to her desires being ignored, discarded as immaterial. What use was there in asking, when one would only be met with denial? But she would have to learn to continue as she meant to go on, and that would mean casting off old habits in favor of new.

"You have only to say," he said. "We're still some distance from Galina." And yet, he was fairly confident that she would not withstand the hour or so that remained.

She made a strangled sound in her throat, but otherwise held her peace.

 _Tap tap tap_. Her nails resumed their beat; he imagined the scars they would leave behind, holes worn into the armrests like a woodpecker had staked its claim.

 _Tap tap tap_. She shifted in her seat, crossing her right leg over her left. Her hair bounced over her shoulders as her head swiveled, eyes searching for something to latch onto, to concentrate on in a futile effort to hold onto the threads of her control.

 _Taptaptaptaptap._ His lips quirked up just at the corners, though he elected not to remark upon the furious click of her nails. _She_ would have to be the one to cry halt.

"Balthier?"

Ahh, and there it was. Honestly, he'd expected her to hold out a _bit_ longer. "Hmm?"

"Would you…" A pause; she clenched the armrests and made a concentrated effort to compose herself. "Would you set her down, please?"

The quaver in her voice bespoke more than just nerves; it was genuine distress. A quick glance revealed her face drawn and pinched, sweat beading upon her brow. She swallowed spasmodically, but it was the hitch in her chest that had him snapping swiftly into action.

"The washroom is just down the corridor," he said as he grabbed for the yoke. The poor girl was dreadfully close to casting up her accounts.

A slow, careful shake of her head. "Too small," she croaked miserably. Her throat worked desperately, her cheeks were devoid of color.

Thank the gods they were so close to land; he cut across the open waters, gently easing the _Strahl_ up and over the nearest ridge of cliffs, steadily reducing the speed until at last he could bring her down upon the flat crest, already punching in the commands that would extend the dock.

The moment the ship touched stable earth, Penelo _launched_ herself from her seat, grappling for purchase against the wood-paneled walls of the corridor, stumbling towards the dock.

Balthier wasted no time in heading to the _Strahl's_ small kitchen for a glass of water and a tea towel, struggling in vain to vanquish the sliver of guilt that pierced him. Blast it, he had known she wasn't going to make it – he should have landed immediately, spared her the suffering.

The unmistakable sound of retching told him that she hadn't gotten very far. And as he rounded the corner, he saw that she hadn't even made it off of the dock – instead, she was bent over the rail, clutching at it with one hand while the other frantically scraped at her loose hair between heaves, attempting to keep it away from her face.

He set the glass of water on the dock as he stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder to alert her to his presence, and carefully swept her hair back, disentangling her fingers as he went. Her skin was cold and clammy, a light sheen of sweat glistened on her shoulders, plastering down the baby-fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Gathering her hair into one hand, he used the other to snatch the tea towel off of his arm and blot away the sweat from the back of her neck.

Freed of the task of holding back her own hair, her free hand grabbed the rail in a death-grip and her whole body shuddering as she expelled the contents of her stomach. At length, she took a few gasping breaths and wilted to the dock, folding her legs beneath her.

"Water?" He snatched up the glass and held it up before her. Snatching at it with shaking hands, she rinsed her mouth and spat through the railing over the side of the dock until the sour taste had been purged. Then she chugged the last remnants and carefully set the glass aside as she collapsed to her side and curled her arms over her head, groaning.

"Any better?" he asked, folding the tea towel over on itself and using the clean side to sponge gently at her face.

She shook her head, just a bit, as though reluctant to make any sudden moves. "Dizzy," she mumbled. The morning mist enveloped her, settling over her like a cloud, filtering the harsh rays of early sunlight into a hazy glow. Moisture collected on her hair like tiny glass beads, softening the tangled blond strands into graceful disarray rather than chaotic disorder.

He could no longer ascertain if her pallor was the result of illness or her three years absence from the warmth of the sun. For all he could tell, she might just fade away into the shroud of mist and disappear altogether.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Couldn't help it. Walls closed in."

He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair, but she seemed too fragile for such a thing. Instead he said, "No harm done. I suppose I'm simply thankful you made it off the _Strahl_ in time."

She managed a ragged laugh and turned just a bit, uncurling herself to roll onto her back, one arm draped over her eyes to shade them from the light. "It wasn't easy, that's for certain." She shifted a bit, hissing as the cold metal of the dock touched her back. Her movements were tentative and shaky, still beset by a lingering weakness.

"You should be abed," he said. "You've remained awake the night through. Can you stand?"

"No, I –" She paused, took a deep breath. "I'd rather stay here. Just for a bit. If that's all right." Her voice subsided into silence, captured by the fog.

He had hoped they would make Galina this morning, but…he supposed they were in no particular hurry. Morning was not yet well advanced; he supposed they could spare a bit of time. And so he said, "Certainly. I'll be just a moment."

And when he returned just moments later with a blanket and pillow pilfered from Fran's bed, she was already asleep.

* * *

Penelo woke hours later to the distant cry of seabirds and the scent of freshly-brewed coffee. Though her back ached with the impressions of the _Strahl's_ dock, her cheek was turned into the downy softness of a feather pillow and the wispy tendrils of fading fog touched only her face; the quilt that had been draped over her blanketed her in insulating warmth. She made a soft sound of discontentment as she rubbed at her eyes. Her stomach had mostly settled, but her muscles ached with the force of the spasms that had assailed her, and there was a bit of lingering dizziness.

"Ahh, and Sleeping Beauty at last awakens."

She cracked one eye open with no little effort; not six inches from her face rested Balthier's boot. He had taken up a seat upon the dock, stretched out in a carelessly elegant sprawl. His hands were curled around a mug from which rose a thick cloud of steam, obscuring the lower half of his face. But his eyes were faintly mocking.

She huffed her annoyance; she felt like death warmed over, and she was certain she'd never borne _less_ of a resemblance to a fairytale princess. She tried to swipe her hair away from her face, but her fingers knotted in the mass of tangles. She was fairly sure she'd drooled in her sleep, and there was a crick in her neck that promised to remind her of this misadventure all day through. But she dragged herself up nonetheless, ignoring the protest of her sore muscles, and scrubbed at her pale cheeks.

"Is there coffee, then?" she asked, sniffing the air.

"Of course." He adjusted his grip on his mug to free a hand, then reached down to retrieve a second mug from where it was concealed behind his knee. He slid it toward her, just at the edge of the blanket.

She looked like a little bird in a rumpled nest. As she reached for the mug, the blanket slid off of her shoulders to pool in a semi-circle around her legs. A satisfied smile flirted with the corners of her mouth as she wrapped her hands around her mug, lifted it to her face, and inhaled deeply of the vapor rising from it. "Ohhh," she murmured. "This is _good_."

As if he would stock inferior coffee. "The best money can buy," he said. And then, mulling that over a bit, he amended, "Perhaps instead the best money _can't_ buy. This was private stock, blended exclusively for a princess of Rozarria."

Her shoulders hunched just a bit and she ducked her head and snorted, as if she had only just managed to hold back an onslaught of giggles. "You, ah… _liberated_ it, then, did you?"

"Well, I _was_ in dire need. Not to worry; I left the princess at least a few ounces."

"Oh? And how much did you take?" she inquired, but there were traces of amusement lingering about her lips as she posed the question.

"Oh, pounds and pounds of it. More than I could drink in a lifetime, I'm sure." He readjusted, braced his mug on his knee, and said, "Do you know, I can't even recall what we had initially gone after. The coffee was by far the better part of the spoils."

She sighed, a wistful sound, as if she could almost recall the job herself. "I've missed so much," she said. "All that wasted time." Amusement fled, regret tilting at the corners of her lips. Another sigh, heavier this time, and she hid her face behind her mug so that he could not see the expression she wore. "I was such a fool."

"You were young. Everyone is foolish when they are young." He unfolded himself and rose to his feet. "But you're free now, and likely years sooner than your, ah…former suitor would have reason to expect. There's ample time to plan your revenge."

Her head jerked up in surprise. "Revenge?" she whispered, as if the word itself was foreign to her.

"Surely you've thought about it," he said. "How could you not?"

She shrugged, a hesitant rise and fall of her shoulders. "I suppose I must have, at first," she murmured. "But it doesn't last when you have no way to bring it about. It's like a dream; it couldn't stay when all of my thoughts were collected on working my way out. I couldn't waste my time on thoughts of revenge while I contemplated freedom. Eleven hundred and twenty-seven days I was trapped there," she said, "and I marked each of them on the walls of my room. Freedom will trump revenge every time."

"But now – why the one or the other when you might have both?"

Why, indeed? It was just that every time she had thought of Raen in the past three years, she had been unable to quell the tide of fury that swept over her, and the seething depths of it had appalled her, frightened her. In her younger days, she had turned the other cheek to slights against her, but the years had worn thin her skin, and she was the tiniest bit afraid that if she ever encountered Raen again, she would not seek to put matters equal, she would seek to _kill_ him. And while just the thought of it was as satisfying as it was terrifying, she would never give a man so much power over her again.

"I'll consider it," she said at last. "Though to be honest, I'd just as soon never lay eyes on him again."

"Oh, come," he said. "There's much to be said for revenge. I ought to know."

True, he _had_ been instrumental in his own father's demise – but even that had been merely one cog in the larger machine that had finally freed Ivalice from the machinations of capricious gods. So he had had his revenge on his detested father, but she wondered if it had been as satisfying to him as he claimed, what it had cost him to obtain. In counterpoint to Balthier's claim of the merits of revenge, there was also Ashe, who had had every reason in the world to pursue it. Ashe had lost more than any of them, and it was only by the strength of her own character that she had built a new future for the whole of Ivalice out of the ashes of the old, forsaking revenge in favor of peace. Penelo might've had some such nobility in her once, but it had long since been worn away by cruelty. Two paths diverged, and she wondered which of them their travelers had found most worthy.

"I said I would consider it," she said again. "But it's _my_ business, and I'll thank you to stay out of it."

She had hoped that her sharp tone would have put him in his place, but he merely chuckled and stretched out his hand to her to help her to her feet. She set her hand in his and allowed him to pull her up, then passed him her coffee mug as she bent to collect the blanket and pillow.

"Will you make it to Galina?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so," she said. "It's just that I haven't been on an airship in years, and…"

"And perhaps there was a touch of claustrophobia?" he suggested. She had suffered well enough the confines of the _Strahl_ when it was her freedom from incarceration. It was only now that other options presented themselves that she chafed under the restriction and panic had reared its ugly head.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "I don't like walls," she said. "I've seen enough of them to last a lifetime." And she rubbed one ankle against the other, as if the weight of the manacle that had bound her stayed with her still.

"The _Strahl_ is convenient," he said. "The fastest ship in the skies. We should make pitiful pirates without her. But…perhaps _you_ might like to fly her."

She started, so surprised by the offer that she had to make a desperate grab for the pillow that had slid right out of her hands. "Oh," she said. "Oh, I couldn't. I haven't in years." But her fingers curled, crushing the soft feather pillow in them, as if already imagining the yoke in her hands.

"No time like the present to learn again. And besides," he said, "it's a matter of practicality. If you fly her, you may choose when to set her down." Perhaps she might still be locked within, but this time the key would be in her hands.

"I…I suppose I could try." She shuffled around the blanket and pillow so that she could free one hand to thrust her tangled hair away from her face. "But I wouldn't want to cause her any damage."

He chuckled. "You had the care of her for a year, and nothing ill befell her," he said. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

* * *

Famous last words. She flew like a demon. For all her blathering on about economizing on fuel, once the yoke was in her hands and command given over to her, all respect toward caution or fuel efficiency went straight out the window.

But even as she jerked the yoke and they careened around a jutting cliff so sharply that his stomach crept up his throat and then slammed full-force back where it ought to be, he heard the star-bright, scintillating, joyful trill of laughter that escaped her. Just once, just for half a second – but he thought she had not had cause to laugh in a very long time, and he didn't want to be the one to take it from her once again. And so he clamped his mouth shut – the wisest course of action, given the fact that the swift rising and plummeting threatened even his cast-iron stomach – and dug his fingers into the divots hers had left on the armrests while he fought to remain in his seat.

The _Strahl_ dipped, skimmed the surface of the water, and then shot up, up, so fast that Balthier found his back pinned to the seat by the force. They hurtled up the steep incline of a rocky cliff, and in the _Strahl's_ small kitchen, he heard glasses clank angrily as they were jostled in their cabinets. She'd probably shattered half of his glassware.

But he risked a glance at her face, saw the dimple shining in her cheek and the jubilant, unpracticed smile and the sparkling eyes.

Hell. He'd just have to buy new.

Over the roar of the overtaxed engines, she shouted, "How much further to Galina?"

At the speed they were traveling, she'd cut an hour-long trip down to twenty minutes. "Not far," he managed, striving to be heard over the din. "There's an inlet that cuts across from the sea into the port. Traveling along the coast, you can't miss it."

"Can I take her in?"

At this point, he was fairly certain that which of them had the dubious honor of landing the _Strahl_ was quite irrelevant, seeing as there was absolutely no way in hell that they would make it to the city alive. This was how he was going to die – not in glorious battle, not in a blaze of gunfire over his liberation of some priceless treasure, nor even of old age – but here, in the fiery crash of his beloved airship, with Penelo at the helm.

But her giddy exhilaration…

And he stretched his lips into a bland approximation of a smile, and said, "By all means."


	9. Chapter 9

Against all odds they had arrived safely in Galina, and Balthier could have kissed the ground in relief. He had never before considered that there might come a time when he would so relish having his feet firmly planted on the earth, but it had, and at Penelo's hands. And yet, she had looked just so damn _pleased_ with herself that he could not quite bring himself to chastise her.

She'd taken years off his life with her daring landing, successfully lodging the _Strahl_ flush between two clipper-class vessels, with nary a foot to spare on either side. Luckily, there was just enough room for the dock to extend out the back, permitting access outside. Which Balthier had been swift to take advantage of, the very moment she had retired to Fran's room for a shower before they made for the city proper.

It had taken several deep, steadying breaths to slow his racing heart, to feel the surge of adrenaline ebb, for his blood to cease its infernal pounding through his veins, in his head. _Penelo_ had managed to shake up his steel nerves. It was unthinkable.

And still he took care to recover himself and re-board the _Strahl_ before she emerged from the shower, to avoid injuring her feelings with his utter relief to find himself still living despite her best efforts to kill the both of them. He took up his typical seat on the deck, and collected himself until he could properly wear the mien of insouciance that had once come to him so naturally, and only then did he feel comfortable punching in the codes that would hail the _Galbana_.

Fran answered at once. "Balthier, you have impeccable timing."

"Vaan's out, I take it?" He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head, hoping that Fran could not hear the remnants of his disquiet in his voice. With her sensitive ears, she was adept at ferreting out all but the smoothest of lies.

"In a manner of speaking," she replied. "Is aught amiss? You sound distressed."

 _Damn_. "Nothing you ought concern yourself with," he said. "What's happened with Vaan?"

"He chose the wrong target and has found himself incarcerated." There was a sliver of satisfaction in her voice, a bit of smug delight. "I _did_ warn him, but…"

Balthier pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. It had been many years since he'd heard that particular tone – because it had been many years since he himself had been foolish enough to disregard Fran's sensible advice. "You _will_ spring him free, won't you?"

"Of course." A brief hesitation. "Eventually."

" _Fran_."

"A brief jaunt to jail will serve him well in the future," she said, a touch defensively. "As it did you, on more than one occasion."

She had, in point of fact, _always_ got him out – but she had also, on occasion, let him stew within the dank confines of a cell a bit longer than might have been strictly necessary, purely for the purpose of teaching him a lesson. Which he _had_ learned. Eventually. He supposed it was no better than Vaan deserved, however…Penelo very well might take it poorly did he not intervene on Vaan's behalf.

"Somehow," he said, "I can't imagine that he'll learn his lesson any better in a cell than he would if you had simply boxed his ears. And if you ask me, offloading responsibility for him seems rather like cheating."

"If it keeps him occupied, does it truly matter?" A huff of annoyance issued forth over the connection. "As it happens, I was only going to let him spend a night or two to think on his folly."

And then she would cut him to pieces with the sharp side of her tongue, as Balthier knew from personal experience. She would rend his pride to shreds, breaking him down in the hopes of remolding him into finer stuff. And she was really rather excellent at it.

"Can you complain, when every day he is occupied is a day he cannot search for Penelo – and thus another day that you remain with her?"

"For the gods' sakes," he bit off, fumbling for the control panel to lower the volume, hoping that Penelo hadn't heard it. "Was that really necessary?"

A sigh of aggravation from over the line. "Balthier, I am given charge of a reckless child and instructed to keep him at bay for the foreseeable future, and you ask me if a simple question is necessary. And so I return a question to you: was it _not_?"

Blast it, she had never before displayed the proclivity to meddle in his private affairs; she had been well contented to keep her nose out of anything that did not directly affect their working relationship. Although, he supposed _this_ very well might count in her eyes – he had seen it as something of a sabbatical, but she might see it as something that threatened the nature of their partnership. It was, in point of fact, the longest period of time that they had been separated since she had first taken him in. Still, she could not, after all of this time, _possibly_ be insecure of her place in his life.

"It was not," he bit off, sharper than he intended, still smarting from the blow she had dealt him.

She made a noncommittal noise deep in her throat, the sort that usually preceded a lecture on his myriad faults and perhaps a cautionary diatribe regarding where his conduct was likely to lead him. Sure enough, she began, "Balthier, I hope you will take care –"

But she was interrupted by the patter of bare feet on the _Strahl's_ varnished wood floors, and a voice that called out, "Is that – I thought I heard Fran."

Penelo dropped into the seat beside him, toweling at her damp hair. She had failed to redress; instead she had wrapped a towel around her, tucking the loose end into the hollow between her breasts, and it seemed to Balthier that it held itself up only on a prayer. The scent of jasmine assailed Balthier's nose; Fran's preferred fragrance, found in all of her toiletries. On Penelo it seemed jarring; he had rather enjoyed the earthier scents of his own soaps on her skin, found them more fitting than Fran's flowers.

Or perhaps he had just enjoyed the fact that she had smelled like _him_ , and the proprietary sensation that it had evoked.

"Penelo." Fran's voice was warm, genuinely pleased. "It is so good to hear your voice."

"Fran – it _is_ you!" Penelo laughed, tilting her head back, wriggling in her seat like an overexcited puppy. The motion crumpled the towel; it slid up her legs, parting just enough to reveal the length of her left thigh nearly to her hip. Balthier averted his gaze a fraction of a second too late for comfort, but at least Penelo hadn't noticed anything amiss.

"You sound well," Fran said. "I was relieved to hear that you had been recovered."

"I am well, thank you." Penelo settled back into the chair with a sigh. "I don't know how to thank you for your assistance. If not for you and Balthier, I'd still be little better than a slave." Her lips pursed, as if the word had tasted bitter. Balthier might've pointed out that she hadn't been _little better_ than a slave, she _had_ been a slave – the chain she had been bound with attested to that. But he supposed that the term itself made her feel weak, and modifying it so gave her a bit of her autonomy back. It was the prerogative of the mind to rewrite history to make it easier to bear.

"I did very little, as it happens," Fran said. "Aside from keeping Vaan otherwise occupied."

Penelo had the good grace to flush. "I'm sorry for that," she said. "I know how trying he can be." Exasperation colored her tone; her eyes had gone distant, seeing years into the past, doubtless recalling the countless scrapes that Vaan's recklessness had gotten her embroiled in.

Fran's own annoyed sigh echoed around them. " _Trying_ is too tame a word, I think," she said. "He has the makings of a decent pirate, if only he would curb his rash impulses."

"Good luck, there," Penelo scoffed. "I tried for years."

"Somehow," Balthier cut in, "I believe Fran's particular brand of discipline just might be more effective than yours."

"Oh?" Penelo swiveled towards him, all indignation, pinning him with a glare which was softened by the wayward, damp locks of hair that curled wildly about her face. "And how would you know?"

"Past experience." Somehow he managed to keep his eyes on her face, despite the fact that the towel had drooped dangerously downward, the tucked-in end having been mostly dislodged by her shifting. "As well-intentioned as you may be, you only chide – bothersome, but ineffective. Fran doesn't bother to chide; she goes straight for the jugular. She'll rip him to bits and sew him back up into something useful."

Doubtfully, she inquired, "And I suppose you've been sewn up in the past, then?"

He flashed her a cheeky grin. "More times than I'd care to admit."

Fran's frustrated voice crackled over the line, "If you had learned the _first_ time –"

"We're discussing Vaan's failings, _not_ mine, if you please, Fran," Balthier broke in. In her present pique, Fran might very well wish to humble him with tales of his misspent youth thrown up for Penelo's amusement.

Fran subsided only briefly before murmuring, somewhat sulkily, "As you wish. In any case, it is Vaan's deeds which vex me currently."

With a heavy, beleaguered sigh, Penelo rolled her eyes and asked, "What's he done _now_?"

In a voice laden with smug superiority, Fran replied, "He has gotten himself tossed in jail."

Penelo threw back her head and laughed uproariously. "Ha! Let him sweat it out a few days. It'll do him good."

Balthier stared at her, his brows winging upwards.

"Well," Fran said. "I have my permission, then." And before Balthier could manage a single retort, she cut the line.

But Penelo was still grinning like a fool, ostensibly at the thought of Vaan languishing away in a jail cell. He wouldn't have thought that Penelo would have it in her, to consign someone – _anyone_ – to suffering, even if they might've deserved it. She had been too tenderhearted in the past for that. He had meant only to spare her the worry by asking that Fran see Vaan released. It _had_ also crossed his mind that she would be sensitive to the particular punishment of imprisonment, as she had so recently suffered it herself.

"Something wrong?" She busied herself with securing the edges of her towel, having finally noticed that it had lost a good deal of its hold.

"No, not particularly," he said. "I suppose I thought you would be rather troubled at the thought of Vaan's imprisonment."

She made a disapproving sound in her throat as she fussed with her hair. "Balthier, I _promise_ you – even if Vaan didn't quite deserve to be tossed in jail _this_ time, he's gotten away with things that _would_ merit it. It'll do him good to learn he's not invincible."

"He's rash and young," Balthier said, not a little bemused with his defense of the boy. "Everyone gets into scrapes eventually; it doesn't mean –"

"Better he learn a small lesson now than a large one later," she said, rising from her chair. "It's a kindness, believe it or not. We all pay for our sins. Some of us larger prices than others." And as she turned on her heel to walk away, she briefly rubbed one ankle against the other, drawing his attention to the fresh bandage wrapped around her right ankle.

A subtle reminder that she had paid for her relatively minor sin of naïveté, and the price had been high indeed.

* * *

The tavern Balthier had chosen in which to enlist guides for their trek into the jungle bore a startling resemblance to the one Penelo had so recently left behind. Surely, in such a sprawling city, there would have been others to choose from – but he had insisted upon this one in particular, claiming that its patrons were, on the whole, a more adventurous lot than were to be found in any other.

The boisterous laughter that had met them when they had entered seemed to bear evidence of at least a good-natured grouping. And the board reserved for the posting of marks had been picked clean, with just ragged edges of paper left clinging there to attest to the fact that it had once been riddled with them. Likely they were just plucked off the moment they were posted, by intrepid and enterprising souls with a surfeit of confidence and very little fear.

As she and Balthier claimed seats near the rear of the room, Penelo chanced a good look around. Most of the patrons were men, but she there were a fair few women as well, mostly older; mid-thirties at the youngest, and all of them battle-hardened. Like as not they'd had to be twice as tough as the men to prove their worth, and Penelo could not count a single woman who looked as though she might've smiled at any point in the past year.

Despite the fact that the tavern they occupied was right in the middle of a thriving town – a shining example of civilization unlikely to be plagued by beasts – each patron was dressed as if for battle, their leathers and chainmail not polished to gleaming shine, but still scarred and tarnished from their latest adventures. As near as Penelo could figure, they subscribed to the idea that there was little point in polishing armor that was soon to grow dirty again.

A serving maid soon brought by two mugs of bitter ale, and Balthier commanded a moment of her time with his request to point out a couple of people that might be willing to lead an expedition into the jungle.

The maid had merely laughed lightly as said, "Oh, I doubt you'll find anyone fool enough to take _that_ sort of risk…but, Old Rohan, there, o'er yonder – he went in once." She nodded to indicate a rough-looking man of some sixty years quietly nursing a glass of whiskey in a secluded corner. "He talks about it from time to time; you oughta take it up with him."

Balthier had thanked the maid and briefly deserted Penelo in favor of plying the old man into joining them at their table with the promise of a bottle of whiskey. It took only a moment for the man to accept, and his gnarled fingers snatched for the bottle before Balthier's offer had even been completed.

He followed Balthier back to the table, but his thin lips, half-hidden beneath a bushy, unkempt mustache, were twisted in chagrin. His hands wrapped protectively around the bottle as if he feared it would be taken from him, he plopped into a chair to Penelo's right and turned his attention on her. His face was worn like the leather cover of an ancient tome, full of cracks and crevices into which dust and dirt had settled. His hair had been allowed to grow long and ragged, to the point where she could not determine where it ended and his scraggly beard began. A long, jagged scar bisected his face, straight through his right eye, which was a milky white, staring sightlessly.

"Ye want to go into the jungle?" he inquired shortly, and followed the question up with a condescending snort. "Ye'd best rethink it. Ye'd not last a day."

Balthier, unperturbed by the man's hostility, rested one arm on the table and asked, "What makes you believe that?"

Old Rohan made a rough sound in his throat and looked about as if searching for a spittoon. Failing to find one, he simply spat upon the floor. "Soft. The both of ye, soft and weak as babes." But it was Penelo he glared at – ostensibly because _she_ had not been the one to purchase him a bottle of whiskey. "White skin what's never seen the sun. Soft hands, too, I'd wager. Lookin' for a bit 'o adventure to liven up yer life, but ye're out 'o yer element here, missy. Jungle's not for the likes 'o ye. Jungle's not for the likes 'o _anyone_."

And then he blanched, and his startled gaze jerked up to meet Penelo's. She smiled benignly and pressed forward the tip of the blade she'd brandished beneath the table, until he yelped and clutched for his privates, which she had come dangerously close to relieving him of.

"Tell me more," she said, in a sweetly poisonous voice, "about how _soft_ I am."

His gravelly voice jumped an octave higher as he said, "I mighta been mistaken."

"Penelo," Balthier chided, though a shadow of a grin teased the corners of his lips. "This gentleman is our _guest_."

Penelo let the man sweat it out a few moments longer, holding his gaze with her own icy stare before she at last withdrew, tucking the knife back into her pocket. Old Rohan let out a shuddering sigh of relief, scooting his chair as far from Penelo as he could manage.

"She's feral, your lady," Old Rohan said to Balthier. "Ain't never met a lady before what would threaten a man's family jewels. Ye oughta put a leash on 'er."

"She's not my lady, she is my _partner_ ," Balthier said, "And she's likely to take a strip out of your hide if you should persist in speaking of her in that manner." He had carefully blanked his face of expression, but Penelo saw the tightness of his jaw and knew that Old Rohan's antics had annoyed him, though she couldn't imagine why.

"Awright, awright," Old Rohan grumbled. "I ain't meanin' no disrespect, now." He curled his fingers around the neck of his bottle of whiskey, slipping it beneath the table and out of sight, lest it be taken from him. "Ye wanted to know about the jungle?"

"Yes." Balthier braced his forearms on the table and leaned in. "We'd like to find a guide."

Old Rohan choked on a burst of gravelly laughter. "Ye won't find it here," he said. "Ye can take back yer whiskey, it ain't worth my life. I been in that jungle once, more 'en thirty years ago. I ain't goin' back." A shudder slipped through him, as if the memory was still fresh enough to evoke fear, over a quarter of a century later.

"Why?" Balthier asked. "What is so fearsome about it?"

"It's cursed." Old Rohan spat on the floor. "Cursed and evil. Crawlin' with foul beasts what I ain't never seen nowhere else." He hesitated. "Ye ain't the first, ye know, to go anglin' after that tomb. There's scores and scores 'o men that come in search. Hard men, tough men, each thinkin' that they'll be the ones to make it. They go in, y'see," he said, with a bitter laugh. "But they never come back out."

" _You_ did," Balthier pointed out.

"Yessir, I did," Old Rohan acknowledged readily enough. "I was the only one what did. That cursed jungle took half 'o my sight." He drew one crooked finger down his cheek, tracing the deep gouge from his chin to his forehead, pausing briefly to linger over the pale film that obscured the iris of his right eye. "Twenty men went into the jungle that day. Lost half 'o them in the first six hours."

"To what?" Penelo asked.

Old Rohan shook his head. "Don't rightly know," he said. "Some 'o them, they just up and disappeared. It was a death adder what got me, though. Massive, they are. Can't hardly see 'em until they strike, and they like to hide in the trees so's they can get the drop on ye." He held up one hand for display. "Got fangs twice over again as long as my fingers, and venom that'll curdle yer blood in yer veins."

They had faced worst and lived to tell the tale; monstrous snakes had been on the tamer end of beasts they had conquered. And, having spent the last three years in a tavern, Penelo was more than well acquainted with braggarts who dealt in tall tales. "So you never even made it to the tomb, then?" she inquired.

"Near as I can tell, no one has," he said. "Leastwise, no one's made it back to tell the tale. People talk 'o it in stories, like what ye'd tell round a campfire." Old Rohan shifted a bit in his seat and at last inquired, "Ye got a map?"

Obligingly, Balthier reached into his vest pocket and retrieved one, unfolding it to lay it out on the table before them. Old Rohan scoured it, running his finger up along the coast until he came to Galina, then dragging it across into the jungle, where he tapped the north east corner. "Here," he said. "Suppose it'd be here, anyway. Ain't never been there myself, but I flown over this spot in an airship a time or two. Eerie quiet, it is. No sound above it, like it's kilt anything what mighta been livin' there. Trees don't look right from above, neither. All bent and crooked, like they're keepin' somethin' powerful evil in."

"What do they call it, in the stories?" Balthier asked.

"The Tomb of the Forgotten King," Old Rohan said, with a shudder.

Balthier and Penelo exchanged doubtful glances. "That hardly sounds as dire as all that," Balthier said.

"Well, now, a _good_ king wouldn'ta been forgotten, would he?" Old Rohan popped the lid from the bottle of whiskey and took a deep drink. "Seems to me like buryin' in state woulda been too good for the likes 'o this one. A tomb so deep in that cursed place…that's where ye put the ones you want to stay lost forever." He took another long pull from the bottle and replaced the lid. "Ain't no mention 'o the king or the tomb in our hist'ry books, only rumors and stories handed down o'er the years, parent to child. Near as anyone can tell, tomb's gotta be about five hundred years old. There's the lost years, y'see, ten 'o them. Stricken records, pages torn straight outta chronicles. Like the whole of Rozarria just wanted to forget 'em. Bury the proof deep in the jungle and let it rot."

Balthier tented his fingers. "A tomb that old – it must contain a good many artifacts. Items of great historical significance, not to mention their monetary value. You're certain we won't find a guide?"

Gravely, Old Rohan shook his head. "Likely to laugh in yer face, they would."

"Then we'll be going it alone, it seems." Balthier looked to Penelo. "Any objections?"

"Not a one." She hadn't wasted three years of her life staring at the same walls to cut and run just when things got a bit dangerous. A life spent hiding from the world was a life wasted; she had braved worse odds before and won.

Old Rohan laughed, a harsh, faintly pitying sound. "Don't say I didn't warn ye," he said. "Best settle up yer debts afore ye go. Ye won't be needin' the gil where yer going."

* * *

"I suppose we'll need to stock up on supplies," Penelo said. Her fair brows were drawn; she hunched over the table as if she were about to spill a secret that she didn't want to be overheard.

"I suppose we will." He didn't think her posture was due to reticence to venture into the jungle. She hadn't seemed terribly alarmed by Old Rohan's tales of a diabolical evil inhabiting the place they planned to journey into. She, too, was more than slightly skeptical of rumors, likely knowing that old men – especially those given to drink – were wont to embellish their tales.

And yet, she scratched at the nape of her neck as if to brush away a persistent mosquito, her lips pursing into a frown, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Problem?" he inquired.

"Someone's staring at me." She hissed the words, as if it were a grievous crime.

He had not been paying attention to the other patrons; he had been too focused on her discomfort. But a surreptitious glance around the room revealed the fact that she had attracted not one or two, but _three_ admirers. Not unreasonable, given that she was the only woman in the room whose skin didn't look like old leather, whose hair was soft and clean, who didn't appear to have eaten a handful of nails for breakfast. _Surely_ attracting male attention was neither new nor novel to her.

But he could see that it was unwelcome, at the very least – so she was aware of her effect upon men, but resented those who fell victim to her physical charms. That fruit vendor in Valenta whom she had bilked out of a veritable feast – she hadn't just used her wiles against him; she had sought to punish him for daring to be attracted to her.

And he wondered if perhaps she lashed out before _she_ could be struck; a sort of revenge against the male half of the population for their gall in thinking she might have an interest in them, or a precautionary measure, lest she find herself caught in the same net that had proved so disastrous to her before. Perhaps it was even a pseudo-revenge against the man who had hurt her; perhaps she saw glimmers of his face in theirs, or heard the echoes of his voice, and rejected them entirely.

"So long as they keep their hands to themselves, where's the harm in a look?"

She made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, real revulsion on her face. "In my experience, it rarely stops at a look. I'm not ignorant; I had a fiancé. I _know_ what they want." And she shuddered delicately, as if repelled by the prospect.

So she had found the physical aspect of romance to be distasteful, then? He wondered why. Had her suitor been a selfish lover? Gods forbid – had he hurt her _physically_? Or yet worse still – had she been victimized by the patrons of the establishment she had so recently called home? The possibility sparked a blinding rage of a sort he had not experienced in years; his hand shot out, encircling her wrist.

She started so hard that she knocked her cup and ale sloshed over the rim, spreading across the table between them. "What is the matter with you?" she asked, her brows drawing together in consternation as she frowned at him, struggling to pry her wrist from his hold.

"Did he hurt you? Has _anyone_ hurt you? Were you –" But he broke off, unable to utter _that word_ in connection with her.

" _What_?" she gasped. "No! No – well, not for lack of trying, I suppose. But I never had trouble with any one man more than once; not after I bashed their faces in." She succeeded finally in prying off his fingers and wrapped her own around her mug, ducking her head as if embarrassed.

Unbearably relieved, Balthier sank back in his chair and blew out a harsh breath.

"I just – I don't…I never liked it," she muttered at last, bright color flooding her cheeks. In a whisper, she continued, "Raen said I was cold."

The statement brought him up short, surprised a chuckle out of him. "And you _believed_ him?"

She shrugged, but her gaze was focused inside her glass; she absently stirred one finger in the head of foam that topped her ale.

"You're not." He simply did not believe it was possible; not with what he already knew of her. She might have been brought to believe it, but that didn't make it true – and it had been a title bestowed upon her by a complete and utter bastard, which made it all the more suspect.

Her eyes jerked up to his. "I am, though. I've _never_ enjoyed it; it's unpleasant and awkward – it's just – just something you suffer to please someone else." Her lips pursed in irritation, but her gaze had dropped again to her drink, and he got the sense that she was ashamed, that she felt _less than_ forher lack of enjoyment.

She heaved a sigh, and muttered, "At least it always over and done with quick enough."

And he laughed. He couldn't help it. Though to his credit, he attempted to smother it – a bit too late, it seemed, for her eyes narrowed on his face, thoroughly annoyed at his amusement.

"It's _not_ funny," she snapped. Her whole face had gone red as a cherry, though in humiliation or anger, he couldn't be sure.

With no small amount of effort, he managed to sober himself. "No, it's not – it's dreadful." Poor girl; she had so little experience that she was willing to accept Raen's lies and shoulder the blame herself. "If you found it unpleasant, that was _his_ failing – not yours."

"That's ridiculous," she huffed. "He had no trouble…ah, enjoying himself. _I_ was the one who didn't enjoy it."

"Yes, well, men are easy to please. Women, however, often require a fair bit more effort. If he had been any sort of man at all, he would have had a care for more than his own satisfaction." Tragic, that no one had ever taken to time to explain such things to her; she might've escaped such a disastrous turn of events, might never have fallen prey to such as selfish, cruel man.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and pressed her hands to her cheeks as if she might scrub away the flush that persisted. "I'm not sure this is an appropriate conversation," she said. "Do you often discuss these sorts of things with _Fran_?"

"No. But I expect she's forgotten more than I've ever learned, so there's never been a need." Good gods; the last time he and Fran had had a conversation that so much as approached the topic of sex had been nearly ten years ago, and it had been Fran doing the lecturing – and even that had been only a casual instruction to avoid impregnating anyone.

"There's no need for _us_ to discuss it, either." She pushed back from the table, abandoning her glass of ale, still nearly full. "We've got supplies to purchase." She dug into her pocket for her pouch of coins and tossed a small handful of them on the table – far more than was necessary to cover their bill. And then she was striding swiftly for the exit, and he wondered if he might have knocked her off balance, upset her worldview.

He caught up with her just outside the tavern, catching her shoulder to stop her before she could wander off too far. "It _was_ necessary to discuss," he said. "You're _not_ cold, and someday someone is going to prove it to you."

"It doesn't matter," she said, shrugging off his hand. "I don't care anymore – I can't imagine I'll ever want that sort of relationship again. I'd have to be crazy, after everything I've suffered." And she started forward again, tossing over her shoulder, "Marketplace is this way."

That simply would not do. In her present state, she would hiss and spit at any man who approached her, eschewing all potential relationships on the grounds that she was cold, immune to passion. And she would never learn otherwise, because she would never let a man close enough to find out.

Well…except for _him_. He had the luxury of her company for the foreseeable future, and he had earned at least a small fragment of her trust by virtue of having rescued her in her time of need. He got the distinct impression that she saw him as friend first and man second, and that was all well and good – for now. Her guard would remain low, and he could simply...sneak up on her blindside.

She needed a nudge to break free of the icy shell she'd encased herself within. She wore it poorly, and she had not enough experience to recognize it. But she would, given enough time. She had spent so many years surviving that it was all she knew; now she required the space and freedom to grow beyond her perceived limitations, to discover for herself who she _was_ , and not who she had had to be for the last three years.

And he…well, he had always relished a challenge.


	10. Chapter 10

Penelo's confidence had begun to wane not ten minutes after they had breached the outer edge of the jungle. She had expected a sultry heat within the shelter of the canopy, reminiscent of the Golmore jungle, but this…this was _different_. Despite the insulation of the thickly woven network of leaves and branches high overhead, the jungle was cool – almost chilly. Mere minutes into their trek, the bright spots of sunlight glimmering through the treetops had been eradicated entirely, until she felt like they had been entombed in a dense thicket of vines and branches. With so little light, she could hardly see more than ten feet in front of her, and the lush greenery of the jungle took on a darker, more sinister appearance.

Worse than that, the noises emanating from the deep reaches of the jungle were worrisome to say the least. Branches snapping as if beneath an overwhelming weight, the heavy, slick slide of what she was _certain_ were scales slipping over the smooth jungle vines. Unbidden, her mind conjured up imagines of the death adders that Old Rohan had warned of. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled; the uncomfortable feeling of being observed pervaded her senses.

A scratching sound followed by the acrid scent of something burning startled a screech out of her; she heard a furious scrabbling on the ground to her left, as if some low creature had gone skittering away.

A flicker of light turned into a flare – a faint halo of light encompassed her, and within the dim circle of it Balthier stared at her with raised brows. He'd lit a torch; the steadily-deepening darkness had proved too difficult for them to proceed without a light source.

"All right, there?" he asked.

The smoke from the freshly-lit torch hung in the stagnant air; the only thing that stirred it was his breath. It curled around his face in thick grey whorls, pressing in as if it, too, sought to avoid the encroaching shadows.

She cleared her throat, grateful that the flame was weak enough not to reveal the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms. "Yes," she managed. "Sorry." Good gods, three years wasted had turned her into a coward, starting at every little noise.

From his vest pocket, Balthier retrieved a small, silver compass. He squinted at it in the low light, holding it close to his face to read it, then gestured to the left, between a pair of shadow-shrouded trees, their trunks fuzzy with moss. "To the northeast," he said. "Step carefully – the vines are growing thicker."

Penelo took point, armed with a lightweight sword honed to a razor's edge. With the torch lighting their way, they progressed slowly, pausing intermittently so that Penelo could hack away at the vines that had grown across the path. They were profoundly unsettling, those clinging vines – each one she sliced through seemed to fall to the jungle floor and flop around as if rooting for something new to entangle. One or two of them had caught at her boots, curling around them like tentacles, until she kicked them away in disgust.

It shouldn't have been possible, but she had the sinking feeling that even the light from the torch was shrinking away from this place in fear. The flame burned low and soft; she'd been in dank caves that hadn't repelled the light so much. Even the trees seemed to be pressing in, and she took a deep breath and choked back the panic that threatened to rise to the forefront.

"Steady, there." Balthier's hand closed over her shoulder. His voice seemed muted, as if a bit of it had been stolen away by the oppressive darkness, but what threads of it reached her ears suggested that even he was not immune to the unease the jungle evoked.

It was simultaneously reassuring that she was not the only one to feel it and concerning – because if Balthier experienced it as well, it hardly boded well for their journey. She swallowed down her nerves and tried to tell herself that it would be all right; she had a backpack full of various cure-alls; potions, antidotes, elixirs. They'd come armed to the teeth just to be on the right side of preparation. But even that knowledge was cold comfort when the whispers of unseen beastsmoving in the jungle echoed around them.

The faint hiss and sizzle of the torch seared her ears, which strained to pick out and identify foreign sounds. It was only the knowledge that Balthier was close behind that gave her any sort of comfort whatsoever.

There was a flurry of movement to her right, the nerve-wracking _crack-crack-crack_ of branches under what must have been a tremendous weight. She froze mid-slash, every muscle clenched in an agony of tension.

"Balthier…"

"Shh," he whispered back. "Let's not borrow trouble. Hold a moment."

Beyond their tiny circle of light the jungle was black as pitch, an inky, all-encompassing nothingness. There could be myriad ferocious beasts lingering in the trees, surrounding them, and she would never know. The thought produced a vicious shiver, from the roots of her hair down to the soles of her feet. Balthier's hand settled again on her shoulder, squeezing with firm, grounding pressure.

After interminable moments fraught with apprehension, at last there was a rumble of sound, like some massive beast had scraped the trees as it lumbered away – but it came more distantly, and she heaved a sigh of intense relief.

"I think…I think perhaps we ought to have listened to Old Rohan," she whispered. "I've just got this feeling –"

"Foreboding," he said in a deep monotone. "Like we've trespassed where we ought not to have done."

"Yes," she said on a shuddering breath. "That's exactly it." She turned towards him. "We should turn back while we're able."

His expression was unreadable in the low light, but she heard the tightness in his voice when he responded, "We cannot."

A chill slid down her spine, like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over her head. "What do you mean?" she asked, wincing at the high, tinny sound of her voice climbing in panic.

"The way is barred. The vines have been closing in behind us for more than an hour now." He gestured with the torch behind him, revealing the wall of vines that had interlocked, weaving a thick net between the trees that they had just crossed between. They were scored from the slashes she'd cut through them, weeping a thick purple-black ooze, but they were steadily repairing the damage, creeping up along the trees before her very eyes.

"No," she whispered. "That's not….that's not possible. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't wish to alarm you."

 _Alarmed_ was not quite the right word. She'd skipped right past it and gone straight on to terrified out of her wits. She felt her breath hitching in her chest, her throat tightening, her bloodless fingers clenching upon the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword. Mechanically she brushed past Balthier, jerked the sword over her head and swung it at the vines with all of her might. The force of the impact ricocheted up her arms, singing painfully through taut muscles and tendons.

She hadn't made so much as a dent. Not even a scratch; it was as if the vines – vines she had only moments agosliced clean through with the very same blade – had reinforced themselves with steel.

 _Trapped_.

She couldn't uncurl her fingers, and her knuckles creaked beneath the strain. Every muscle felt pulled and stretched to its limit. Her breathing was labored, each breath small and shallow, and her lungs burned with the effort to draw in air. A high-pitched buzz rang in her ears, piercing her brain and blotting out rational thought. She was reduced to primal instinct; she felt only the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest, the prickle of a nervous sweat breaking out upon her forehead. Her vision blurred, faded. Dizziness assailed her, and she swayed on her feet.

Dimly she heard Balthier call her name, felt the palm of his hand against her sweat-soaked back. There was firm pressure on her fingers – the sword was pried from them, dropping uselessly to the mossy jungle floor, and she made a pitiful sound, a fearful whimper dredged up from the dark and quiet place her mind had retreated to.

His hand moved in soothing circles at the small of her back, then traced up her spine to the nape of her neck, fingers searching out the tight, corded muscles. There was a muttered oath, and then his hand cupped the back of her head and tugged, and then her cheek was pressed against the front of his shirt, her hands trapped between them. His heart thudded beneath her ear, a firm, steady beat.

She heard his voice rumbling in his chest, and the even cadence pierced the fog that had enshrouded her mind at last. "Darling, _breathe_."

As if the order had somehow compelled her cooperation, she opened her mouth and desperately sucked in a lungful of air. The blackness at the edge of her vision receded; the buzzing in her ears softened. With each harsh, ragged breath, her tension ebbed like a tide pulling out to sea, her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. With some effort, she matched her breaths to the rise and fall of his chest, and her dizziness at last abated.

He murmured at her ear, "That's my brave girl."

She forced her hands flat against his chest and shoved away, her face burning with humiliation. "I'm not _brave_ ," she snapped, and cringed anew at how weak her voice had sounded even to her own ears. She made a disgusted noise deep in her throat, turning away from the light of the torch, the better to conceal herself.

Balthier heaved a sigh, bending to retrieve the sword he'd relieved her of, and busying himself with wiping the clinging moss from the handle to provide her a few extra moments to collect herself once again. He watched her surreptitiously as she balled up her fists and swiped at her forehead and then her cheeks, sponging away sweat and what he suspected were tears.

"We've got to keep moving," he said at last. "We cannot go back, so we must continue on."

She accepted the sword when he offered it to her, squaring her shoulders resolutely – but her lower lip quivered, just a bit. Poor girl; with no avenue of escape, she was struggling to stave off the instinctual panic that threatened.

She turned away, hacking viciously at the scraggly vines barring their progression, stomping on them as she proceeded past. He followed close on her heels, and staged a minor stumble as he crossed the vines that were already stretching themselves across the path. His muttered oath brought her to a halt, jerking around to face him.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, her voice carefully modulated to disguise her disquiet.

"I tripped, blast it all," he grumbled. "I've got to hold the torch where you can use the light, but _I_ can hardly see my own feet." He gave a remarkable impression of a long-suffering sigh. "There's no help for it; you're going to have to guide me." And he held out his hand to her.

* * *

Naïve she might be, but stupid she was not. He stepped just as nimbly over the fallen vines as she did; he didn't need a _guide_. Still, every time her fingers tightened fractionally on his, he stroked his thumb across her knuckles in silent reassurance until she eased her death-grip on his hand.

She could almost resent him for his machinations…if he hadn't been the only thing standing between her and a complete and total breakdown.

She had never felt so ashamed of herself. For all that he gave decent lip-service to understanding her limitations, how could he help but to judge her lacking? So it had to be pity, then, that had motivated his actions.

He should have left her behind.

Another swipe of his thumb across her knuckles. He said, "Stop that."

She risked a glance over her shoulder as she sawed through a proliferation of vines. "Stop what?" she asked.

"Brooding. It doesn't become you."

"I am _not_ –" She paused to jam forward the blade, neatly bisecting the creeping tendril of vine that had begun to wind around it, "– _brooding_." She jerked the blade free, and a bit of the ominous-looking sap weeping from the severed vines flew up with it, splattering against her wrist. There was a curious warmth to it, a sticky-sweet smell that permeated the air. She tried to rub it off onto her blouse, but only succeeded in coating her wrist with the stuff.

She was clutching his fingers again; she made a concentrated effort to relax her grip, swallowing down her annoyance.

He snorted. "You _are_ brooding. What I don't understand is _why_."

She dragged her sleeve across her forehead, wiping away the dirt and sweat that had accumulated there. "You should have left me," she muttered.

He stumbled, and their hands pulled, and damned if she didn't tighten her grip in response. " _What_?" he bit off.

" _You should have left me!_ " The bitter cry, loud as it was, was quickly swallowed up by the dense jungle. "I'm not _brave_ ," she snarled. "I'm weak. Terrified." These things she spat out as if they were curses, sour on her tongue.

"Do you think I am without fear?" He posed the question blandly.

She averted her face, squared her jaw and continued swinging blindly at the foliage, carving a path through. " _You_ weren't the one that…that embarrassed yourself."

"I've never found myself in a situation that I could not escape from," he said. "If I had, then I very well might have been. Courage cannot exist without fear – he who knows no fear is a fool. Courage is persistence when faced with that which one fears." He cleared his throat. "Might I point out that you are _persisting_?"

She made a scathing sound deep in her throat. "What other choice do I have?"

"There is always a choice. What does it matter if you should fall, so long as you pick yourself up again?" He eased through the path she'd cleared, careful to keep her within the torch's circle of light. "I've known many a man to fall to lesser pressures. Men who have accepted fate and sat meekly down to await death. Be a fighter, Penelo – it's not he with the greatest strength who triumphs, but he with the greatest strength of _will_."

She'd heard such platitudes before and had dismissed them as trite nonsense designed to bolster flagging spirits, but there was such a wealth of sincerity in his voice. As harshly as she had judged herself, she got the impression that he had not judged her at all. Perhaps she had rushed to judgment too quickly herself; perhaps she had assumed pity where none existed.

"I just…I don't want to be responsible for getting us killed," she said. "You shouldn't risk your safety for mine."

She aimed a whack at a particularly thick vine, and was surprised by the spray of hot liquid that burst forth, coating her arms and face. It tainted the air with the thick, coppery tang of blood. A bestial hiss rent the silence, echoing from high overhead. There was the creak and cry of overloaded branches, a shower of leaves that were plucked from their stems by the weight of a massive body moving through the trees.

"Balthier," she whispered, "I think I've gone and killed us after all."

* * *

The light of the torch was insufficient, but what it did reveal was a horrifying sight. The dull shine of a scaly black snake hanging in the boughs of the trees, practically invisible when immobile, but now – now its thick body wended its way through a maze of treetops, surrounding them on all sides. Penelo had inadvertently sliced through its tail, and it was _furious_.

He supposed their luck could not have held forever, but he _had_ hoped to find that Old Rohan had at least exaggerated _something_. If anything, he had undersold – the wildsnakes populating the Giza Plains had nothing on this great hulking beast. Boughs snapped under the strain of supporting the reptile, raining down stinging shards of mangled wood upon their heads.

Balthier dropped Penelo's hand and grabbed for his pistol, hoping against hope that there would be time to fire before the beast had a chance to strike. Surely a body that massive must be cumbersome? He would have to make the shot count; a body that immense could likely shake off a poorly-aimed shot with little to show for it but renewed fury.

Penelo, too, had brandished her sword, peering into the surrounding darkness as far as the paltry light would permit.

 _Fangs twice over again as long as fingers_. Dear gods, he certainly hoped not.

Like the snap of a whip, a mutilated tail lashed out from the cover of darkness, catching Penelo in the midsection with enough force to send her flying backwards. She hit a tree hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, and there was the unmistakable crunch of breaking glass followed by the sweet peppermint scent of potions. Gods, their entire supply had been in her backpack – they might very well all be ruined.

Penelo sank to her knees, groaning with exertion as she struggled to reclaim the breath that had been stolen from her. He strode forward to assist her to her feet, unwilling to let her remain unguarded on the jungle floor.

He'd taken only two steps when a huge, scaly coil unfurled from the trees, suspended in the air between he and Penelo. The snake's head was three feet wide, pointing sharply at the nose. Its forked tongue slithered out, scenting the air. Sickly yellow eyes with their vertical slitted pupils glowed with malice as it stared at Balthier. It drew back a short distance and rose up, unhinging its jaw to frightening effect, and letting out a sound that was more growl than hiss. Its rank breath singed the air between them, its fangs gleaming in the cavernous maw of its open mouth.

If he moved, it would strike – and it had already proved itself faster than he would have believed.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Penelo crawling on her stomach, her sword clenched in her teeth, positioning herself beneath the beast, and he clenched his jaw against the instinct to shout at her. Foolish girl, she was going to get herself killed!

But the adder had eyes only for Balthier; it had failed to notice Penelo creeping up beneath it. Gingerly she rolled onto her back, fisting her sword in her hands, bracing herself for the kill strike. A second later, she thrust the sword up, jamming the blade straight through the snake's unprotected throat. Blood sprayed forth, coating the sword, her hands, her chest – she tightened her grip, sawing brutally through the scaly flesh.

There was a fierce hiss; the snake's body trembled and shook, thrashing in the trees and rattling branches like the very earth had quaked. In its death throes it slumped, the writhing slack of its body pulling loose from the nearest tree, threatening to bury Penelo beneath it.

He moved faster than he would have thought possible, grabbing for her arm to pull her from beneath the crushing weight. But the blood slicking her arms made it difficult to keep his hold; he had to toss the torch to the mossy ground and reach for her with both arms.

 _Too close_. The snake's head lashed out, the spike of one dagger-sharp fang pierced the flesh of Balthier's arm, and then its head at last lolled to the side, the spark of life extinguished.

Searing pain blossomed, surging through his veins like fire. He felt the wet gush of blood and gritted his teeth against the agony that threatened to tear a shout from his lungs.

Penelo scrambled up to her knees, her chest heaving with each sharp, ragged breath.

"I hope," he wheezed, "that there's at least _one_ antidote…that survived that little mishap."

She stilled, her eyes searching the pained tautness of his face, widening in horrified recognition. She grappled for the dying torch that lay beside them, righting it to jam the end into the dirt to hold it stable. "Oh…oh, no." Her voice trembled with fear, her hands reached for her backpack, yanking the togs to open the flap. "Please, please, please, _please_ …"

She winced as bits of shattered glass sliced into the delicate flesh of her hands, carefully sorting through the ruined remnants of their essential medicines in the hopes of locating one – just _one_ godsdamned bottle – that hadn't broken.

Balthier had collapsed onto his side, his breaths faltering to an awkward, unsteady rhythm. Sweat beaded upon his forehead, and his jaw clenched so tightly she could hear his teeth grinding together. His back arched, as if each beat of his heart brought a fresh surge of torment.

At last her fingers curled around a bottle that seemed intact; she lifted it carefully from the depths of the bag, holding it close to the dim light of the torch. The liquid within was an opaque green – _an antidote_. She wiped her bloody hands on her pants and slid her arm beneath Balthier's neck, supporting his head while she tugged at the cork stopper with her teeth. She tilted the tiny bottle carefully against his lower lip, and he managed enough strength to open his mouth at her urging and swallow down the liquid she poured within.

Almost at once, the terrifying contortions that had stretched tight his muscles eased. He sucked in a great lungful of air, gasping harshly. His head fell back against the cradle of her arm, but the tension that had wracked him had drained away.

"Still hurts…like the bloody devil," he muttered, and promptly succumbed to unconsciousness.

Carefully she threaded his arms through the straps of his own backpack, pushing it aside to lay him on his back so that she could press her ear to his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart beat, slow but steady.

She curled in on herself and sobbed with relief.

* * *

Balthier roused some hours later, feeling rather like he'd come out the loser in a fistfight against a behemoth. _Everything_ hurt. His skin felt inflamed, sweat coated his limbs, and his arm throbbed with a vengeance. The mere act of trying to rise made his head spin, and he collapsed back onto his back with a groan.

"Don't move." Penelo's voice was low, quiet. "You're ill."

"It's hot as hell," he grumbled irritably. He turned his head to the side, seeking her out. She'd managed to gather together enough kindling and wood to start up a small fire, which cast up a warm golden glow. In its soft light, he could see that she'd managed to cleanse her skin of the death adder's blood. Her clothes, however, would never be the same – they bore rusty bloodstains which had dried into the fabric, turning it stiff. He knew a moment's satisfaction over it; surely, she'd have to replace the garments. This time with something more suitable than those pauper's clothes she'd been so insistent upon.

"It's really quite cool. You're just feverish." Over the fire, she'd constructed a rudimentary spit, upon which a hunk of meat was roasting, which she carefully turned to ensure it cooked evenly. Her movements were slow and deliberately delicate; her hands were wrapped in bandages. His brow furrowed in confusion, until he realized that she must've cut herself while hunting for an antidote amongst the shattered bottles.

After a moment she unfolded herself from her position by the fire and rooted through his backpack, from which she retrieved a small bottle of blue liquid, a canteen of water, and a length of cloth.

He made a weak gesture toward the bottle. "Some potions survived, then?"

"A few. I separated them from the broken glass after you passed out." She popped off the cork, slipped her arm beneath his neck, and pressed the bottle to his lips. Minty and sweet, the potion instantly eased the worst of his aches, bringing a blessed, cooling relief.

"You ought to take one for yourself," he said, nodding to indicate her wounded hands.

"Already did." But her eyes slid away, and he knew she'd lied. Had she been so worried that she had suffered her own wounds rather than take a potion she might otherwise save for him?

She eased her arm out from beneath him, unscrewed the lid from the canteen, and liberally soaked the linen cloth, pressing it to his forehead. He relaxed beneath the gentle strokes of her hands wiping away the sweat, cooling his overheated skin.

"Dinner ought to be ready soon," she said. "You should eat, if you're able."

"What is it?" He hadn't remembered packing anything that required cooking.

"What else?" She flashed him a feral grin. "Snake."

A laugh rumbled in his chest, but even that small amount of exertion hurt. "You're incorrigible."

"I killed that snake fair and square," she said, defensively. "And I'm taking a strip of its hide with me. I'm going to turn it into a new pair of pants as a warning to other creatures that might want to test their mettle against mine."

He caught her hand in his using only the lightest pressure so as not to aggravate her wounds, and drew her fingers to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles. "Brave girl," he murmured, his eyes sliding closed. "I told you so. Took years off my life, seeing you crawling underneath that monstrous beast."

Carefully she extracted her hand from his, expression pensive. "You're still feverish," she said. "You should go back to sleep. I'll wake you when there's food."

She skittered away, all ruffled feathers and befuddlement, retreating to the fireside to check the progress of the meat sizzling away. He observed her for long minutes in silence, from beneath his lashes lest she chance a glance back at him. She'd doused the torch in favor of the fire, and had managed to heave the massive snake away from the small area she'd cleared. True to her claim, a large strip of the snake's skin had been carefully peeled away and reserved, and the thought of her in a pair of honestly-earned snakeskin trousers brought a satisfied smile to his face.

She had her demons still to conquer, but he hoped she had proven to herself that bravery was not a quality that she lacked.

When she had deemed the meat cooked through, she pulled the stick from the spit and collected another potion from among the ones remaining in the bag. As she settled beside him once again, he managed a reasonable approximation of having been roused from a light slumber.

He made to rise once again, but she pressed him back down. "Don't you dare," she said. "You need to _rest_."

She plucked tender morsels of meat from the spit, hand-feeding him until she was satisfied he'd ingested enough to sustain him. Then she set aside the spit and grabbed for the potion, popping off the cork.

He grabbed her wrist when she would have pressed it on him. "Are there more?"

"A few," she said. "Three, I think. Not ideal, but better than nothing."

"Take one for yourself," he said.

"I told you, I already –"

"No, you didn't. You're a poor liar." He squeezed her trapped wrist gently. "If I take this one, _you_ will take one yourself. Agreed?"

"I really don't need –"

"It's not open for debate," he said firmly. "I will be well enough, given a bit more rest. But you must be in fighting condition as well."

She blew out an aggravated breath. " _Fine_ ," she snapped. "I'll take one."

He released her wrist, took the potion from it, tossed it back, and handed back the spent bottle. She traded that out for the canteen, but he lost patience when she attempted to help him drink that, too.

"I assure you," he said as he made a grab for it, "I am no longer so weak as all that."

"You've been sick for hours," she replied. "You _should_ be sleeping, not…not pushing your limits."

"Penelo –"

"No! I won't let you injure yourself further –" But she subsided into silence as he hoisted himself upright, snatching the canteen straight from her hands. He took a deep drink and handed it back to her, curling her fingers around the cool metal. Her lower lip was thrust out in a petulant pout at his refusal to heed her advice.

He curved his palm around the back of her neck and drew her close before she could do more than take a swift breath. He heard her fingernails scrabble along the metal canteen, felt her muscles tense beneath the gentle pressure of his fingers. His cheek brushed hers; he felt the soft warmth of her breath against his chin. That tension wound tighter and tighter, until he imagined he could hear her muscles straining beneath his hand.

He could wait her out. His fingers tunneled into the hair at the nape of her neck, stroking through the soft blond strands, carefully combing out the tangles. He felt more than heard the shuddery sigh that escaped her, felt the tension ebb and her shoulders settle to a more natural slope.

He nipped her lower lip. She jerked, gasping, and he gave a low chuckle as he cupped her chin, tilting her head up. His lips brushed hers with soft, light pressure, until at last her lips parted beneath his, lulled into complacency by the gentle caress. She made a curious sound in her throat, what might've been a whimper, but was certainly not a rejection. He stroked the apple of her cheek with his thumb, and her eyes slid shut. She leaned in, a hint of invitation.

She started again at the first touch of his tongue, as if each foray were new and unexpected, and he could have happily strung up her former lover by his neck for having failed her so spectacularly on so many levels. She wasn't cold; she was merely untutored – because the selfish bastard hadn't given a single thought to her enjoyment.

And it had taken so little to coax it out of her – she made sweet sounds in her throat, tipped her head to find a better angle, tentatively sought out his tongue with hers, making her own shy overtures. Her hands lifted to settle on his shoulders, lightly at first, as if she were unsure if it was the proper thing to do. Her fingers flexed and curled, her nails prickling the starched linen of his shirt.

And then she pulled away abruptly, gasping, "Oh – the canteen!"

He smothered a chuckle; she'd dropped the damned thing in her lap without bothering to secure the lid, and a small stream of water had poured itself upon her lap.

He let her fumble with the cap; her hands trembled as she struggled to replace the lid, and she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

And then she was rising to her feet, clearly seeking escape. She studiously avoided facing him, and he wondered whether or not she would be blushing – if he would even be able to tell in the low light of the fire.

He caught her wrist before she could flee. "You're _not_ cold," he said. "You deserved to know."

She stilled at once; from this position he could see only the tautness of her jaw, the sharp edge of her chin. "Am I supposed to _thank_ you?" she asked, in a cutting voice.

Well, if she could snap, she couldn't be too terribly shaken up. "If you feel so called," he replied, in a patently arrogant tone.

A growl of fury gurgled up between her lips. She wrenched the lid from the canteen and dumped what water remained straight over his head.

Another man might have been angry. _He_ tossed back his head and laughed. Then he removed his vest, jerked his sodden shirt over his head, and tossed it over a low-hanging branch to dry. He sighed, folded his vest up carefully, and shoved it beneath his head. His fever had gone; there was only a lingering soreness left to attest to their battle with the death adder. He really _would_ be well enough recovered in the morning.

She stalked back toward the fire, settling in for what looked to be an inspired sulk.

"Take a potion, darling," he called. "We had a deal."

Without so much as turning in his direction, she extended her hand toward him and made a rude gesture.

And he chuckled as he settled in for the night. Snake bite and envenoming notwithstanding, he couldn't recall the last time he had had such fun.

* * *

AN: There is a lovely group of writers to be found on the Fanfiction subreddit! We even have our own discord channel, for anyone who might want to bounce ideas around and talk with other writers. All are welcome!


	11. Chapter 11

There was no difference, this deep in the jungle, between night and day. The unrelenting darkness had smothered any light that might have attempted to breach the canopy; it might have been noon, but it might just as well have been midnight.

Penelo knew only that she had jerked awake at a strange rustling sound, but the fire had long since burned itself out and she could see nothing beyond perfect black. For a heart-stopping moment she experienced a frisson of utter panic at finding herself helpless, sightless, and unarmed – and then she heard an unintelligible murmur, followed by a soft rumble of a snore.

She choked on a gurgle of laughter, rooting around in the darkness for the bag she was sure she'd left nearby. Her fingers found the discarded torch first, stuck right through the strap of her bag, and she set it across her lap as she jammed her hands into the bag searching for the small, square box of matches. It took her a few attempts to strike the match against the box with enough force to light it, and she singed her fingertips in lighting the torch – but at last there was _light_.

Light enough to see the vague outline of Balthier's sleeping form. He made a rough sound of displeasure in his throat, tossing himself in the other direction, ostensibly to protest the intrusion of the light into his cozy world of darkness.

She busied herself with collecting a bit of tinder and twigs that littered the ground, gathering them into a small pile atop the remains of last night's fire, and setting them ablaze with the torch. The additional light revealed nothing particularly disturbing; there were no new tracks to suggest that any creatures had invaded their camp while they slept. Of course, there was still the corpse of the massive snake ringing the clearing – it might have posed too great a risk for any creature that might have happened by to risk a closer look.

It appeared as though Balthier had risen at some point during the night; he was no longer merely blanketed by his bedroll, but within it. Penelo had not cared to take the risk of moving him while he had been so ill, and so she had only rolled it out on top of him to shield him from the chill in the air. She supposed she should have given a thought to his wellbeing – and her own – _before_ she had upended one of their water canteens over his head. She only hoped it hadn't soaked his bedroll as well as his shirt.

They had three canteens remaining between them; enough to last another day if they did not manage to come across a source of clean, drinkable water – but she didn't imagine she would trust it, even if they _did_ find something.

She had no idea how far they had left to travel or where their path would take them. Still, it was best not to linger longer than necessary. With limited water and potions in short supply, they needed to make all haste.

She crossed the few feet to where Balthier's bedroll lay and dropped down to her knees, reaching out to grab his shoulder and shake him awake – and paused, arm extended. His bandaged arm was thrown over his eyes, his opposite arm draped across his chest. Which was bare. _Bare_? Well, she _had_ doused him with water; she supposed that it shouldn't be all that surprising.

She didn't know why she was hesitating; it wasn't as if she'd never seen a man's chest before. Good gods, Vaan had gone _years_ with only a vest. She wasn't even particularly convinced he had a shirt to his name. It was just that she had never seen Balthier in such a state before, had never even considered it. She'd had an image of him in her mind, and he had always been both fully dressed and immaculately groomed. Somehow it was disquieting to see him now neither; even in the soft glow of the firelight she could see the shadow of a day's stubble shading his jaw. His hair was in disarray, strands clinging to his forehead in clumps, held by mingled sweat and dust. He had never looked less himself – and he had never _acted_ less himself.

That was the trouble; she had thought that she had known him, and yet…he wasn't quite the Balthierthat she remembered. The Balthier she remembered would never have kissed her.

 _No_! Nothing good would come of dwelling on that; he'd been out of his mind with fever and poison. It addled the mind, everyone knew that. He couldn't be held responsible for actions taken while suffering illness. It was unlikely he'd even recall it, wasn't it? No harm done in the long run, and best forgotten altogether.

She blew out a harsh breath, steeled her nerves, and grabbed his shoulder to shake him.

He made a sound that could only be considered a groan of dismay, swatting ineffectually at her hand. "Blast it, Fran – five more bloody minutes."

Perplexed, Penelo jerked her hand away. The moment she released him, he shifted in the bedroll, twisting onto his stomach, where he buried his face in his folded arms and immediately resumed that low, rhythmic snore.

She shook him again.

His voice was muffled as he groaned, "Haven't you _any_ mercy in your soul?" One hand emerged from beneath his head to reach around, searching for something to drag over his head to block out the world. His fingers found only moss and dirt; his head popped up as he muttered, "What the devil –"

Penelo stared at him as if she were quite sure he'd lost his mind. After a moment's hesitation, during which she nibbled her lower lip in a valiant effort to refrain from commenting on his behavior, at last she said, "We should get moving."

Still in the fuzzy, sleep-clouded twilight stage of wakefulness, he flopped onto his back and asked, "I don't suppose there's coffee?"

He _had_ packed a small amount of it, in what Penelo had taken for an overly optimistic attitude. "We can't waste the water," she said. "You'll have to make do as is." And she experienced a twinge of guilt, for she hadn't given a single thought to wasting water when she'd dumped half a canteen over his head last evening.

Balthier hauled himself up to sit, scrubbing at his eyes as if even the soft firelight stung. The top layer of the bedroll fell to his waist, and Penelo skittered backwards in what Balthier felt was a rather unnecessary display of outraged modesty.

"You'll want to turn around," he said, extending his arms over his head in a sinuous stretch. The sore muscles in his back pulled and relaxed; he let out a satisfied sigh. "I don't make a habit of sleeping clothed, and my trousers are –" He gestured to a low-hanging vine half-hidden in the shadows that wreathed their campsite, " – over there."

With no small amount of amusement, he watched varying emotions flicker across her face; incredulity, shock, displeasure. He was delighted to note that he absolutely _could_ make out a blush even in the low light. Perhaps it was just that she blushed so very well, her fair skin burned with it.

Her mouth dropped open, her jaw working as she struggled to find an appropriate response. She drew in a breath and hissed, " _Really_? We're in the godsdamned _jungle_!"

He shrugged. "Who's to see, then?"

" _Me_ ," she cried.

"Well, you certainly will if you intend to remain there gawking like a schoolgirl."

The acerbic comment had a galvanizing effect; her mouth shut with a snap and she scrambled to her feet and away from him, one hand shading her eyes just on the off-chance that he decided to rise before she had fully averted her gaze.

Thank the gods her bag and bedroll were in the opposite direction of where he'd hung his trousers; she shuffled over to her belongings and dropped again to her knees, busying herself with gathering them all up and packing them away.

Not so very far behind her, she was intensely aware of the sound of Balthier rising and striding – _naked_ – across the clearing to retrieve his discarded clothing. The sound of fabric rustling as it was collected burned her ears, unnaturally loud in the stillness of the jungle. What was _taking_ him so long? Had he even bothered to begin dressing, or was he taking his sweet time to taunt her? She risked a tiny peek over her shoulder.

He'd donned his pants, at least, though he was still shaking the wrinkles out of his shirt. And he was looking straight at her as if he had _known_ that she would be tempted.

" _Ha_ ," Balthier crowed, and the single syllable was so full of smug satisfaction that Penelo's palms itched to smack his smirk right off of his face.

She fastened her bedroll to her bag and growled, "I was only wondering what was taking you so long." But somehow the words rang false even to her own ears. She just…hadn't expected him to be built so differently than Raen. Raen had been soft – not _fat_ , but totally lacking in any sort of defined musculature, owing to his indolent lifestyle. He had never had to work for his living, never had to lift a hand in manual labor, and it showed. Balthier, in turn, was lean. His skin stretched taut over cords of muscle, with nary an ounce of fat to spare. He had the sleek look of a predator, fit and active.

Raen would have despised Balthier, she realized. Balthier had honestly earned the reputation and image that Raen had so wanted to cultivate, but had never been willing to put any work into. He had always been searching for the path of least resistance, spending his time steeped in resentment for those who had surpassed him.

The crunch of a footstep behind her made her jump; she whirled, her fist clenched around her sword.

"If you're quite through woolgathering," Balthier said, "we may as well be off." A hint of a satisfied smile lingered near the corners of his mouth, as if he assumed she had been thinking about him.

And to react at all would confirm it, blast him.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and neatly side-stepped him. "You're right," she said. "Let's go."

* * *

He ought to have invested in a timepiece after all. There was no way to measure what time it was, or how long they'd been walking. They were down to only two canteens, and his stomach protested the simple breakfast of dried, salted meat. He'd become acclimated to a richer fare. When they made it back to civilization, he would insist upon a decent meal immediately.

 _If_ they made it back to civilization, anyway.

Though she hadn't given any indication that she might succumb once more to panic, he had noticed the tendency of her shoulders to pull up tight and tense until she recognized that she was doing it and shook herself out of the habit.

She had not offered her hand to guide him, presumably because she was still displeased with him.

But she _had_ looked. Just a tiny, furtive peek – but _she had looked_. Indifferent she was not, no matter how she might try to convince herself of it. At the very least she was curious, and curiosity he could work with. She might be persuaded to indulge that curiosity eventually.

She paused abruptly as she hacked through the vines barring their path, listening intently. "Do you hear that?" she asked in a whisper.

He stilled, concentrated – his brow furrowed. Behind him he heard the quiet, latent sounds of the jungle. The soft rustle of leaves, the distant snap of a twig as some creature trod upon it. Before him – nothing. Not a single damned sound; only an eerie, chilling silence.

He lifted the torch, and revealed only utter darkness.

"I think we found it," she said. "The tomb, I mean." And she swallowed audibly, as if the thought of proceeding any further terrified her.

"I think you must be correct," he murmured. And he rather wished that he had never suggested such an ill-conceived venture to begin with. The jungle had been risky enough, but this was an entirely new level of unsettling. But there was no way back, and so it was through they would have to go.

They eased between the trees, and Penelo was startled to hear her boots click against stone rather than earth. Balthier swept the torch in a low arc, revealing a stonework path laid out before them, leading into the distance.

"Have you got an extra torch?" Penelo asked, sheathing her sword. "I don't think I'll have many vines to cut through here." Her words sounded flat and dull, dampened by the murky darkness.

Obligingly, Balthier rooted through his bag and came up with a spare. A few seconds later, their circle of light grew a bit brighter with the advent of the additional torch. Grey, twisted trees lined the walkway, their gnarled limbs intertwining as if they had been trained to grow over the path. There were no visible vines, nothing to obstruct the path.

And still Penelo was reluctant to step forward. "What do you suppose we'll find?" she murmured.

A way out was at the forefront of his mind, but if she had not yet realized that they had no apparent exit strategy, he did not wish to plant that disquieting thought in her mind.

"Something valuable, I should hope," he said. "Let's not linger, shall we?" He took the first steps, and she followed close on his heels, twisting round as they walked lest they be taken by surprise by some nefarious creature lurking in the ever-present shadows.

In the distance, as the light from their torches lent their glow, a huge hulking building loomed. Built of grey stone and swathed in large patches of thick moss, it looked more ruin than tomb. And yet as they pressed closer, a shiver of awareness prickled at his skin and raised the hair at the nape of his neck.

Strong magicks were at work in this place; the sort that were only found in places of dire danger. And worse still, upon approach he realized that the base of the tomb was shrouded in a thick layer of _mist_. Better, then, that Fran was otherwise occupied for this particular venture. The last time they had encountered a place of so much mist had been disastrous indeed.

Three steps rose sharply upward at the end of the path, leading straight to the massive stone doors at the entrance to the tomb. At their approach, the mist encircling the tomb pulled back as if stirred by a breeze, almost as though it were inviting them to inspect the doors.

They were sealed tightly, with barely a hint of a crack to suggest where they met, and no visible lock. But carved into them was an inscription, chiseled into the massive doors in clear, deliberate lettering.

Penelo swept her torch along the doors, reading the inscription aloud, "Wanderer: Here you may venture, and no further. Let rest the sleeping queen." She turned towards Balthier, brows drawn together in puzzlement. "Queen? I'm fairly sure Old Rohan said _king_."

"Ah," he said. "I'm afraid it would hardly be the first time history has been rewritten in favor of men." He made a disapproving sound. "Queens in their own right are a fairly recent occurrence; in _her_ day and age, it would not have been at all the thing. And that, I am afraid," he said, "might very well be why we find her buried _here_ , and stricken from the annals of history no less."

"How sad," Penelo murmured. "To be willfully forgotten. To be worth less for having the audacity to be born the wrong gender." She placed her palm against the stone door and jerked immediately back with a sharp cry. In the torchlight, her palm had been seared an angry red, but Balthier had not the time to do more than briefly examine it, for there came an angry rumbling, and the rough, ear-burning sound of stone scraping across stone.

The faint line marking the seal between the doors flooded with golden light so intense that Balthier shaded his eyes against it, and slowly the seam split, and the doors began to move, retracting within the tomb. Ancient dust that had not been disturbed for hundreds of years clouded the air as the massive doors ground against the stone floor.

Penelo coughed, covering her mouth with her injured hand against the thick, swirling dust. The mist that had wreathed the base of the building began to move again, seeping in through the open doors. The bright light flared to a brilliant burst and then winked out abruptly, like its source had been summarily extinguished, and the tomb was once again dark and silent. The magicks that warded this place had been strong enough to collect this much mist, and it had held over centuries, and yet – it had been all too simple to gain entry.

Which lead to the disquieting conclusion that perhaps the wards had not been intended to keep visitors out, but rather to keep something else _in_.

* * *

"Tread lightly," Balthier murmured. "I don't care for the feel of this place." The mist swirled in strange patterns upon the floor as if impeded in its circuitous flow by phantom objects. There was little inside the tomb that would attest to its occupant being of royal blood, and certainly not the trove of ancient treasures Balthier had hoped to find. The walls were bare, marked only with metal rings set into the stone, holding long-extinguished torches. Balthier touched the flame of his own to the one nearest the door, pleased to find that after a moment's hesitation it caught the flame and held. The tight seal of the doors had kept the tomb dry for centuries, preserving the torches that had been set into the walls.

He proceeded slowly through the room, lighting torches as he went, until at last the whole of the room was blanketed in a warm haze of light. Penelo wandered to the far wall, where a small gold plaque hung in a shallow recessed hollow. Placed below it were several white candles, giving the overall appearance of something approximating a shrine to the deceased.

Penelo picked up a candle to light the wick against her torch, then used it to light the other candles. The plaque shimmered in the candlelight, its inscription legible at last.

"Oh," Penelo said in a disconsolate voice. "She was only twenty. So young."

A whisper of sound came from behind him; a shadow in his peripheral vision moved where it ought not to have. Balthier turned, but there was only the mist there, climbing the walls, stretching out thin skirls like fingers reaching for a prize.

Unsettling. Deeply, profoundly unsettling. "Anything useful?" he asked. An escape route would be of particular interest just about now.

"Well, informative at least – her name was Anora Celestinia of Rozarria; she was last of her line. It – it looks like the Margraces must have overthrown her." Penelo looked over her shoulder toward him. "I suppose I just thought they'd always been in power."

Penelo's education as a commoner had been sorely lacking, but Balthier's had not. "They were a minor line, connected to the throne by blood but they didn't rightfully sit it until – well, I'd suppose right around the time our queen here met her end. It all gets a bit murky; their ascension was largely glossed over. And no wonder, if they had had a hand in creating their own good fortune." He searched the shadows still, trying to shake the unpleasant feeling that something was searching _him_ right back.

Penelo continued on, "Whoever put this here beseeches the mercy of their beloved queen, that she might find the peace in death that escaped her in life, and that she spare Rozarria her vengeance. Why does that sound so…ominous?"

"Remember Nabudis," he murmured. "Think of the lost souls whose senseless deaths prevented them from moving on, tying them forever to the Necrohol."

Penelo turned, mouth agape. "You don't…you think she might still be here?"

"I'm certainly not ruling it out," he returned. "If her contemporaries were fearful enough of it to ask her to spare them her vengeance, I'd wager good gil on the likelihood that she had reason enough to desire it. That sort of emotion is ruinous – frankly, I'd be more surprised if she _hasn't_ lingered."

Given their past experiences – the Necrohol had been terrifying, to say the least – he would have expected some manner of revulsion, perhaps even horror from Penelo.

Instead, she let out a gusty sigh and said, "I hope she's moved on. I can't imagine how lonely it would be to be trapped here for so many centuries."

There was a soft sound near his ear, like a satisfied chortle. But when he turned, there was nothing to be seen; only the wick of the mist curling around the torches, turning them to balls of light glowing behind a fine, opaque sheen of white.

"Oh! There's something here; a crack in the wall. Do you suppose that's where they put her?" Penelo asked.

Balthier crossed the room to examine the section of wall that Penelo had discovered; a small section at the bottom had crumbled away, destroyed by a wedge of stone that had driven up from the floor, most likely forced there by a tree root that had tunneled beneath the tomb over the centuries. Upon closer examination, there was a seam, so slight as to be nearly undetectable – a hidden door. He braced his palms against the stone and pressed, but there was no give, not even the smallest concession to his effort.

"Strange," he said. "They hid her, even within her own tomb." The room they currently occupied was nothing but an antechamber, an entryway. It held nothing of value, and little of import. Perhaps it had been meant as a deterrent to trespassers and thieves, that they might think the tomb already looted. He searched the walls for a latch, a lock, any such mechanism to operate the door, but came up short.

Beside him, Penelo made a soft sound of dawning realization. She held up her hand, palm-up, and examined it in the light. The magick that had seared her palm earlier had left behind its mark: an angry, raw wound, like a layer of flesh had been seared clean off. "I think…" she murmured, contemplatively, "I think it must…want a sacrifice. And I've already volunteered."

Before he could protest, she placed the flat of her hand against the seam of the door. Heat flared; there was a brilliant flash of light, and Penelo bit her lip against a cry of pain. But she held her palm flat until at last there was a grinding sound, and the door began to separate from the wall. When she retracted her hand, blood poured freely from the fresh wound. This one had taken a slice from her palm, scoring her delicate flesh deeply.

Balthier muttered a thick stream of expletives, hauling his bag from his shoulder and rooting through it in search of potions and bandages. He found a strip of cloth and snared it with his teeth, tearing it to an appropriate length, then grabbed for her hand, winding it around tightly to staunch the flow of blood.

"You little fool," he snapped. "Do you _never_ think before you act?"

She swayed a little, her eyes glazed with pain. "Our best way out is _through_ ; you said it yourself." Her voice was tight and sharp, each word forced out through teeth clenched tightly against the pain.

"I didn't intend that you should _maim_ yourself," he responded.

"It'll heal." She swallowed hard, flinching when he tightened the bandage. "I hope." And then, as the door tucked itself back against the interior wall and ceased its infernal scratching racket, she peered over his shoulder and said, "Balthier, I think we found her."

The light from the antechamber spilled into the newly-opened room, and in the center of the floor there rested a massive stone coffin carved with the image of a young woman, her arms folded over her chest, eyes closed in her eternal slumber. A slender crack ran the length of the lid, from the artless sweep of carved curls framing her head straight past the dainty, sandaled toes.

"She's kept this long; she can wait a few more minutes," Balthier growled, plucking the cork from the neck of the potion. She accepted it with her free hand, swallowing back the liquid in the small vial, and sighing in relief.

"I'll be fine," she said. "Really. I want to see her now." She snatched a torch off the wall with her comparatively-uninjured hand and ducked around him, slipping through the open door into the heart of the tomb.

He made a rough sound of aggravation in the back of his throat and followed her through, repeating the process of lighting the torches that hung upon the walls until the room was ablaze. And again he was disappointed, for the treasure that they had sought was not to be found in priceless gems or artifacts – instead, the room was full of _books_. By all rights they ought to have crumbled to dust in the intervening years since they had last been seen, and yet they seemed as fresh and vibrant as they must have been when first they had been bound. Perhaps the seal that had been placed on the tomb had also served to preserve its contents.

Balthier was willing to bet that these ancient tomes contained a wealth of information that had been long since lost to time. Valuable to Rozarria's history, certainly – but with little monetary value, to be sure.

Penelo had eyes for nothing but the coffin; she stood beside it, peering down at the intricate carving. "She was pretty," she murmured. "She reminds me of Ashe – a queen so young, with everything set against her. I can't imagine what it must have been like."

The pages of an open book near Balthier's right side fluttered as if stirred by a breeze. The mist crept within the room, pulled up tight against the walls and hovered there. And again, he felt as if unseen eyes were trained upon them.

"She shouldn't have been forgotten," Penelo said. "No one deserves to be forgotten." She brushed her fingertips across the queen's folded hands as if she sought to comfort the forgotten queen through her carved image.

A shadow crossed Balthier's vision in a high arc, sweeping the mist through the air as it passed, streaking great clouds of it in its wake. He could not see through the dense mist; Penelo had disappeared entirely, encased within a shroud of the stuff.

But he heard her sharp cry, quickly silenced, followed by the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor. He charged forward, plunging into the mist where he had last seen her, sweeping the curling tendrils of it away in a vain effort to clear the air.

His hands searched the floor in a desperate attempt to locate her, and a moment later he caught her elbow in his palm, curled his hand around it, and hauled her upright. She groaned as if the effort of sitting alone was painful, resting her head back against the coffin.

Slowly the mist settled once again, restoring visibility. Penelo stirred, and in the silence of the tomb her breaths were harsh, almost…unnatural. As if she had forgotten how to breathe.

And when her eyes opened at last, he realized why.

It might _look_ like Penelo, sitting there, her chest heaving with each rapid breath. It was certainly her face, and her body – but it absolutely _wasn't_ Penelo.


	12. Chapter 12

In the silence that pervaded the room, the creature that had taken up residence within Penelo's body shook off her head as if to clear it, then lifted her hands for inspection.

Shook _Penelo's_ head; lifted _Penelo's_ hands.

A disgusted sound erupted from her lips, which contorted into a fierce scowl. "This body is damaged," she said, her voice unpracticed and with a peculiar intonation, full of stilted consonants and silky-smooth vowels.

" _That body_ ," Balthier snarled, his jaw locked in fury, "belongs to a _person_ who possesses a _name_."

"Bah!" Her mouth twisted in a sneer, so entirely incongruous on Penelo's face that it brought Balthier up short. "That matters not at all, as I've no need for it." She made to rise from the floor, but managed only a paltry effort before she collapsed once more to the ground. "Ugh! What ails this body _now_? It is often plagued by such weakness?"

Balthier marveled at the fact that the being housed in Penelo's body expected him to inform her of its limitations. What incredible arrogance it possessed, one might almost think – _oh_. The bloody _queen_ ; of _course_ it was the bloody queen. She hadn't merely lingered, her spirit entombed along with her body these past centuries; she had lain in wait for some foolish person to come offering freedom – and a fresh new body to go along with it.

"Anora, I presume?" What _was_ the protocol for addressing long-dead queens?

Her eyes – _Penelo's_ eyes, he reminded himself – narrowed to slits, slanting him a cutting glance. "Do you frequently address your betters by their given names? I demand the respect that is my due."

A bark of laughter escaped him. "And what respect are you due? You're a common thief, the same as I."

Her gasp of outrage rent the air. "You dare! I am no thief!"

The chiding glance he sent her required no words to accompany it.

"Her heart was opened," she said, defensively. "I took it for an invitation." She peeled back the layer of bandages encasing the palm of Penelo's hand, shuddering as she surveyed the ruined palm. "Defective," she pronounced. "She offered up a defective body."

"For the gods' sake – _she did not offer it up to you_." He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "What manner of person were you, that you would mistake simple empathy for an invitation to steal a body?"

"I owe you no explanations," she snapped, a fire glowing in her eyes. "I have taken this body for my use, and I do not surrender what is mine." She shoved herself up on legs that wobbled precariously. Balthier supposed five centuries absent a body might render her unfamiliar with one's use.

He drew his gun, leveled it at her, and cocked it. The sound ricocheted around the room, deafening. She examined the weapon without apparent interest; Balthier surmised that in her time, firearms might not yet have been invented. Thus the threat was meaningless, lost entirely on a woman who had no experience with the damage such a weapon could wreak.

With a scathing sound, she whirled and headed for the door. He took careful aim and fired; the shot lodged in the wall a few inches from her shoulder, sending a spray of stone shards through the air. In the small room, the single shot had had the sound of an explosion, setting Balthier's ears to ringing. The queen was not unaffected; she cringed, slamming her hands over her ears, coughing to relieve her lungs of the cloud of dust that choked her. Her furious eyes skewered him, but there was a new respect in them, and not a little fear.

"A firearm," he said, in response to the unvoiced question. "A ranged weapon, capable of inflicting powerful damage. You will _not_ be leaving this tomb."

A ragged laugh burst from her chest. "You would not kill me," she said. "Not when it means _her_ death, as well."

"She is…dear to me," he acknowledged. "But there are things worse than death, and for her, I think this would be one of them." He gestured with the gun that she should take a seat, and, after a moment's hesitation, she did so. Stiffly, as if it galled her to be ordered by him, but sit she did nonetheless.

"We are at an impasse," she said.

"Not so," he replied, his weapon unwavering. "As I see it, the upper hand is entirely mine."

His confidence piqued her anger; she cast a sulky glare in his direction, tipping her nose upward in a haughty dismissal.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. "That's a borrowed face you're wearing, and that petulance doesn't suit her in the least."

She bared her teeth in a scowl. "You shall simply have to acclimate yourself." She looped her arms around her knees, wincing when she clasped her injured palm. "What makes you so fond of this form? It has little to recommend it, and surely no great beauty."

"There are things more precious than beauty," he said, in a scathing voice. "If she fails to meet your exacting standards, why should you keep hold of her?"

She sniffed disdainfully. "A queen has no great need of beauty," she said. "She rules by right of blood alone, and if her detractors find her not beautiful, then they will at least find her terrible to cross."

"Ahh," he said, a subtle taunt creeping into his tone. "As your detractors found you?"

A harsh, in-drawn breath rent the air; she ground her teeth together in an effort to quell her fury. "You speak of things you know naught," she hissed. "The Margraces came not as enemies but as friends, and I suffered much for their betrayal. They did not even offer me an honorable end – instead they smiled benignly while they slipped poison into my cup. I begged for death long before it was granted to me."

He could almost pity her for that. Perhaps he _could_ have bestirred himself to dredge up a bit of sympathy – had she not hijacked Penelo's body for her use. He managed a rusty chuckle, and said, "Given what I know of you, _your majesty_ , I can hardly blame them."

At that, her lower lip quivered just a bit, though she averted her face half a moment later.

 _Penelo would have sympathized with her._

He brushed away that obnoxious thought. What Penelo would have done hardly mattered. And besides, hadn't she so ruthlessly consigned Vaan to a prison cell for the foreseeable future?

But that was a prison of the lad's own making – this was a prison of centuries that had been snapped shut on a young woman who had merely had the misfortune to have conniving distant relatives.

"Where is she?" he asked. "What have you done with her?"

Her face jerked back towards him, her hand pressed to her chest. There was the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes. After a moment, she said in a low voice, fisting her hand over her heart, "She is here still. She struggled quite fiercely for a time, but she is quiet now. Still. Perhaps she sleeps."

Not bloody likely. How could she, when she found herself in yet another prison? And this was one he could not break her free of – not unless the dead queen _chose_ to vacate the premises, so to speak. So he would have to convince her to do so of her own accord…somehow. How would Penelo manage it?

 _Sympathy. She would be sympathetic to the plight of this girl who had suffered her own imprisonment._

The gun weighed heavily on his hand, but he braced it upon his knee to keep it level. "Tell me how it happened, then. What came to pass that brought you here?"

She turned wide, wounded eyes to him. "You would see me snuffed out like a candle; how could you possibly care?"

"Because Penelo – that's the girl who's body you've stolen, by the by – was right. No one deserves to be forgotten." His lips thinned in a gruesome travesty of a smile. "Not even a miserable, thieving ghost of a queen."

"I am forgotten?" she asked. She wore a curious expression – a blend of shock and befuddlement.

" _Yes_ , you ninny – it's been five hundred years. The early Margraces scrubbed your name from history. Your tomb has become a thing of legend, and your people have attributed it to the final resting place to an ancient, evil king."

"But the books –" She waved one hand towards a stack of ancient texts. "Surely they contain something?"

"Those ones might," he said. "Though I doubt they'll contain anything that would incriminate the Margraces. But the surviving texts from your era mention you not at all. You might as well never have existed."

Her head dropped back, and a hard, weary sigh stirred a whorl of mist. She raised her hands to her eyes to scrub at them viciously, and though she gave a fierce effort in stifling it, Balthier heard the brief, muffled sob that choked her.

He reminded himself that she was just a young girl – younger, even, than Penelo – who had met a gruesome end that she likely had not deserved. She had been imprisoned for centuries; surely that was bound to twist a soul. She wanted the freedom that had been denied her, and, while perfectly understandable, he could not grant it to her at the expense of another. Most certainly not at Penelo's expense.

He sighed and holstered his pistol. "You must know," he said, "that there is nothing left for you in this world. Your time has long passed; you know naught of this one. Even did you attempt to rejoin it, where would you go? You cannot reclaim your throne, and you've no way to take it, besides. Your kingdom is in other hands – capable hands, I might add."

"A Margrace sits my throne!" she cried. "It is unbearable to think of. They deserve to suffer –"

"Not these ones," he interrupted. "Would you truly seek to punish them for crimes they have not committed? They are five hundred years removed from those who wronged you." He readjusted, slinging his arm over his knee. "However evil their ancestors, the Margraces who currently rule Rozarria are good, honorable people. They are innocent of any crimes against you."

She bowed her head, contemplative, gazing down at her palms settled in her lap. In a low voice she said, "For five hundred years, I have had only hatred to sustain me. It is all that I have."

"And you would have hatred be your legacy, then?" he asked. "You would use it to settle an ancient score against people who don't even know your name?"

She made a rough sound in her throat and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. "It isn't fair," she whispered, in a tearful voice.

"Life – and death – seldom are," he said. And though she made no reply, he continued on, "Penelo has suffered as well. Perhaps not to the length and depth that you have, but she, too, has suffered imprisonment in her time. Would you repay her sympathy for your suffering by imprisoning her once again? For that would make you the same sort of villain as the Margraces."

A sharp gasp met his words; she lifted her head and stared at him. She wore an expression of utter vulnerability, but it rested uncomfortably upon her, as if she were both unfamiliar with it and vexed by it. Her lower lip trembled, but she caught it between her teeth and firmed her chin. Her gaze dropped to her lap once again as she admitted, in a very small voice, "I fear what awaits me. So much of me is hatred; I know not what else remains of who I once was."

"I daresay I shall fear what awaits me, as well, when it is my time to kick off this mortal coil. There is no shame in that. But your freedom from this prison is not out into the world; it is what awaits you in the hereafter, whatever that may be. Best that you should let free your hatred and see if anything worthy remains." He shoved himself to his feet once again and offered her his hand.

She accepted it, and his help to her feet, eyeing his holstered pistol askance, as if it might set itself off on its own. "Will you…" She faltered, nibbling at her lower lip, unsure. "Will you _truly_ restore me to history?"

"Provided that we – that is to say, _Penelo_ and I – are able to navigate this wretched jungle back into civilization unscathed, I assure you that I will." He gestured to the stacks and stacks of books littering the floor. "Were it not buried so deep in such a dangerous jungle, I imagine droves of archaeologists would overrun this place. Historical scholars would dearly love to learn of the missing years in Rozarria's past. As it is, we'll be able to take only what we can carry."

There was a moment's awkward pause as she considered that. At length she said, begrudgingly, "This body ill suits me, I think. It is imperfect, and I find I like it not its limitations." She raked him with a curious look. "She is covered with scars and wounds – why should you wish the return of such an imperfect creature?"

Balthier shook his head, amused that she could be so willfully ignorant. "It isn't the body – it's the girl. There is a kindness in her that is incorruptible. She is, perhaps, too good for this world, bent by her ordeals, but unbroken. She deserves every happiness in life, and yet has suffered too much of its ugliness."

She nodded shakily, and said in a rush, "Then I will return her to you, and brave the winds of fate. I ask only for a small portion of your time, that I might relate my history for you to take with you."

At last he allowed himself a smile, and said, "Your majesty, it would be my honor."

* * *

 _Squander not your good fortune, child._

The soft, feminine whisper pierced the fog that had clouded her mind, and Penelo came back to awareness by slow degrees, with the sensation that she was floundering upwards through a murky darkness, struggling into the light. There was the curious feeling of _something_ lifting away like a veil that had enshrouded her, coercing her into a long, deep sleep.

She took a breath, and then another, and though her lashes still felt weighted heavily upon her cheeks, she heard the sizzle of the lighted torches, felt the cool press of the stone upon her back and the careful stroke of fingers through her hair.

"Welcome back." Balthier's voice was warm and tinged with relief.

Had she gone somewhere? She remembered only discovering the queen's coffin, reaching out to touch it, a vague sense of panic, and then – nothing.

"What happened?" Her voice was a thin croak, her mouth dry as a desert, her throat raw and scratched as if she'd done a good deal of talking. She managed to lift her lashes at last, and blinked to bring the room into focus.

There was a soft snicker. "Ah, well – my initial assessment turned out to be correct. The queen _did_ linger."

"Did she?" She shoved herself to her elbows, thrusting herself up to a seated position. Balthier dangled a canteen before her and she snatched at it greedily.

"Mm," he said. "And she, er…elected to borrow you for a bit."

She choked, coughed once, managed a terse, " _Rude_."

"So I managed to convince her," he said. "She was quite set on keeping you, for a while."

Indignation snapped her spine straight. "Why, that little –"

Balthier coughed into his fist and murmured, "She's still here."

A shadow peeled itself from the wall, slinking over the stone floor in a manner that might've been considered vaguely apologetic. There was little form to it, just the suggestion of something not quite of this world.

Balthier said, "I've assured her that, in exchange for your safe return, we would do our utmost to restore her to her proper place in history. Which means we must make haste and secure an exit from this wretched jungle." He gestured to a small stack of books beside him. "It's unlikely that there will be further exploration of this place, given its location. These texts are the ones she has selected for us to return with. In conjunction with her own words, they ought to prove uniquely illuminating to historical scholars."

Just three texts, in deference to their already heavy bags. Out of the hundreds that were scattered in piles across the floor, only three books had been chosen. It was a shame, Penelo thought, that so much history had to be left behind.

"And you ought to be on your way," Balthier said to the shadow that had melded with those nearest the doorway, where the glow of the torches was slight. "Be brave, Anora."

Though it couldn't have been said to be actual speech, there came a soft whisper, as of wind wicking across stone, faintly chiding. Penelo could almost imagine that the shadow had chastised him for using her given name. In what might've been called a regal manner in a person, the shadow drew itself up, sliding through the open doorway and out of sight.

A moment later, there was a fierce rumbling. The very earth trembled around them, and as a shower of crumbling stone shook free from the ceiling, they scrambled to their feet. Balthier snatched at the books; Penelo grabbed for their bags, and together they dashed for the entrance, eager to be free of the tomb lest it drop down around their heads and make of _them_ its newest occupants.

Outside the tomb, the ground beneath their feet groaned and heaved, and in the overwhelming darkness they scrabbled for purchase upon the unsteady earth. Fearing that it might split beneath her to swallow her up, Penelo nonetheless dove for the ground, flat upon her belly, and covered her head with her hands to shield it.

Her ears burned with the mighty _crack_ of trees breaking and the sharp, ear-splitting shriek of stone grinding against stone as the earth bellowed its outrage. It seemed long minutes before the chaos that had come so suddenly at last settled, and longer still before her heart ceased its frantic, thunderous beat.

And then, stranger still – her hands were growing _warm_. She opened her eyes at last, to a changed landscape. Brilliant sunlight poured through the ruined trees above, spilling in across the remnants of the stone path that had been ripped asunder. It was as though an angry god had swept a massive scythe across the land, tearing out trees by their roots and carving a deep valley through the depths of the jungle, spreading with it the first sunlight the jungle had likely seen in hundreds of years. It had to be fifty feet across or more and just as deep, running the length of the land far into the distance.

And then a brisk wind swept through the newly-opened canopy, carrying down with it a soft, sweet sound – a gasp of surprised delight; the last breath of an ancient queen who had gone on to her next reward.

Beside her, Balthier heaved himself to his feet once more, carefully avoiding the loosed stones. With a satisfied chuckle, he helped Penelo to her feet and surveyed the valley before them. "She did it," he said. "She cast off her hatred, and look – it came to some good after all. I'd venture to say she's given us a way out."

* * *

The walk out of the jungle proved not nearly so treacherous as that into it, nor was it anywhere near as slow-going, owing to the fact that there were no vines to dispense with, no perilous landscape to traverse in near-complete darkness. There were no beasts to be found within the valley they walked, and so they risked no more danger than the possibility of turning an ankle upon a stray tree root.

The musty smell of dank moss had been vanquished by that of newly-turned earth, and it was rich and soft beneath their feet, providing a cushioned path for them to walk. The sun was high overhead still; Penelo supposed that they must have set out very early that morning indeed, for it couldn't be much past midday.

Balthier insisted on stopping every so often to change the bandage wrapping her palm, carefully inspecting it each time for any hint of infection. Penelo felt that she could have gone without him poking and prodding at the wound, which was still fresh enough to sting each time he poured water over it to cleanse it. But she gratefully accepted the sole remaining potion when he offered it nonetheless, for the dripping sweat coaxed forth by the midday sun stung worse in the wound than the water.

They passed the remaining canteen between them in silence for some time, before Penelo worked up the nerve to ask what had occurred while the queen had taken possession of her.

"Nothing of consequence," he said. "Like most royals of my acquaintance, I found her rather spoiled. It took a great deal of talking – and some carefully-drawn parallels – to convince her that she could not have you."

Penelo shuddered, unbearably relieved that he had managed it, that he'd even bothered to go through the trouble. "I suppose I ought to thank you, then."

"Quite." He snickered. "As it happens, I achieved very little until I considered what you might've done under similar circumstances."

Her head snapped toward him so quickly that she missed the stone lying in the dirt before her and tripped upon it. "What?"

He shrugged. "She was able to prey upon you because you had opened your heart to her, or so she said. Five hundred years in that place had turned her cold and hard; she needed a sympathetic ear. And also someone to tell her that her hopes of revenge would be for naught, for if she punished innocents for ancient crimes, it would make of her the same sort of villain that she reviled."

"Oh." She had been prepared to dislike the queen despite her initial sympathy. Having one's body stolen did not tend to rouse good will. "And she agreed with that assessment?"

"Perhaps not initially," he said. "But a bit of well-placed guilt over imprisoning you just the same as she was imprisoned, and here we are." He reached for the canteen and took a deep drink. "Most of all, she was afraid. For centuries she had been unable to move on, locked away in that tomb, feeding only upon her hatred. And when the chance to move on at last arrived, she was afraid to take it, fearing what reward her hatred would earn her in the afterlife."

A smidgeon of that sympathy emerged once again for the queen who had lost her life to such dark scheming. She heaved a sigh and said, "It's not fair."

"That's just what she said," Balthier said. "And of course it wasn't, but it's the distant past now, and there is no going back. For what it's worth, I think history – when it is properly restored, that is – will look kindly on her. A queen in her own right, cruelly struck down and forgotten so many years – she'll cut quite the figure, I should think. The epitome of tragic romance, given what she told me."

Penelo supposed that would explain her sore throat – if the queen had imparted her story to Balthier, she'd likely done a great deal of talking. "Don't keep me in suspense; what did she tell you?"

He said, "The Margraces had marked her hand for one of their own sons – a boy some ten years her junior. He was merely to be a puppet, instilled upon the throne so that his relatives would rule through him. But Anora had no intention of giving up her birthright for a mere boy to sit her throne. And then she committed an unpardonable offense: she took a lover."

"Oh," she said. "Oh, dear." She blew out a breath. "I imagine that didn't go over well."

"Mm," he said. "About as well as could be expected. He was of the servant class, entirely unsuitable, and likely the worst possible choice. But she loved him, and she would have wed him had she had the opportunity. Clearly, the Margraces would not stand for that."

"No," she said. "I suppose they wouldn't."

"And so her lover was quietly done away with, or so she assumed; she knew only that he vanished, never to be seen again. Presumably he was killed for daring to reach above his station, ruining the queen for the Margraces' schemes. And when she called the Margraces to her court to account for him, they slipped her a poison – a particularly nasty one, for which there was no remedy. Only days and days of torment, until at last she succumbed to its effects." He shook his head, disgusted. "They hadn't even the mercy in them to make it quick – they had to make her suffer for her stubborn refusal to acquiesce to their demands."

"No wonder she wanted her revenge," Penelo murmured. "They took everything from her." So many years of pain – centuries spent in darkness, stewing in her misery and hatred, denied by the magick-warded tomb even the chance to ascend to the afterlife.

"They ordered her tomb built while she yet lived," he said darkly. "They spread tales to the populace that their much-beloved queen had been corrupted, that she had vowed vengeance upon her countrymen. Then they brought themselves forward as the saviors of Rozarria, that they would see her bound in death, so that her vengeful spirit could never plague the living."

Penelo drew in a quick, angry breath. "They _made_ her into a vengeful spirit," she said.

"Yes," he said. "But how should the common men have known that? People are simple and easily lead; they trust in those who rule over them."

Penelo considered the plaque she had found hung in the tomb, the plea for mercy from the queen's vengeance. Anora must have had some loyalists amongst those who had entombed her, for the language in the plea had been more distraught than frightened.

"I suspect the texts were smuggled into the tomb to preserve them," Balthier said. "It is quite likely that the Margraces had already begun their campaign to remove her from history, as much to protect themselves from her as to maintain their ill-gotten power." He sighed. "She did not know that she had been forgotten," he said. "I think perhaps that was the worst of it; she had only her hollow hatred while the world moved on as if she had never been."

Penelo turned her face to the sky and shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun until the threat of tears had passed. "I hope she found him," she said wistfully.

"Hm?"

"Her lover," she said. "I hope she found him. I hope he waited for her." There had been that last sweet sound of delight, and perhaps it might have been the joy of two lovers reunited after so many centuries. Perhaps happiness waited, even in times of tragedy and suffering, just beyond the horizon. Penelo experienced a sliver of shock at how much she wanted to believe it was true, to believe in a happiness that could last in spite of everything. A happiness merely waiting to be discovered.

"I'd like to believe he did," Balthier said. And then, "Watch your step, there – the path is rising."

Some hours before, the path had deepened from a valley into a gorge, rising into cliffs on either side so tall that they could not glimpse what lay beyond them, whether they were in the midst of the jungle still or no. But the trek became arduous as the path climbed up and out, littered with the remnants of the shattered earth's crust, casting boulders and other debris into their path.

It was a fierce uphill climb of more than an hour, and the heat of the day was fading, the sun hidden behind the ridge of cliffs by the time they neared the end.

And yet, as they approached the summit, Penelo could not see the ruined trees that ought to have marked the edges of the cliffs. She struggled to keep pace with Balthier, clamoring over loose earth, carving footholds into it in the fierce effort to breach the top. But with her injured palm, she could not pull herself over the last ledge.

Balthier braced himself as best he could, linking his fingers together. "Step here," he said, "I'll toss you over first."

She grabbed for the ledge with her good hand, set her foot in his hands, and let him thrust her up enough to shove her over. As she sailed up, she grasped great clumps of grass and heaved herself free of the valley. And she laughed breathlessly, throwing off her bag and rolling onto her back to stare up at the wide, cloudless sky.

"We made it!" she shouted to Balthier, as he pulled himself over the ledge. "We made it through!" A brisk wind swept across the open plains. In the distance the jungle loomed, dark and ominous – but the valley had breached it by a good half-mile or more. It carved now through open plains, with naught but summer-ripe grass to be seen.

Balthier dropped onto his stomach beside her, out of breath with the exertion of the climb. "So we did," he said. "Anora's made her mark on the world after all. Centuries after her death, she's changed the face of Rozarria. And I imagine, now that there is a direct path to her tomb, there will be expeditions after all."

"Good," Penelo sighed. "I'm glad." She closed her eyes and let the soft sweep of the wind wash over her, wicking away the sweat that coated her brow and softening the heat of the afternoon sun on her cheeks.

A shadow passed before her closed eyes, like a cloud had drifted overhead. But the sky had been a vibrant, unbroken blue only moments ago. Her eyes opened; Balthier's face obscured the sky. He was braced over her on his forearms, grinning down at her like he'd won some crucial victory.

"You were brilliant," he said. "But perhaps next time you might avoid being such a bleeding heart. Else you might as well paint a target on your back for any lingering spirits."

And she laughed; she couldn't help it. "My bleeding heart was our way out," she said. "Without Anora's help, we might never have made it through the jungle."

"Hm," he said. "Then perhaps we ought to leave the tomb-raiding to the archaeologists and stick to pirating?"

And while she was still helplessly chuckling, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. It wasn't particularly smooth or practiced, but it quelled her laughter nonetheless. It wasn't dominating or crushing; it begged permission rather than demanded an answering response. It tasted like an affirmation of life, like a celebration of their success. And for a moment she forgot that both of them were dirty and sweaty and likely reeked of unwashed clothing and every foul substance they'd accumulated on their journey through the jungle. She forgot that her palm stung, forgot that her hair was tangled and filthy. She didn't care that the stubble on his jaw abraded her skin, didn't care that he was transferring dirt from his face to hers.

They were _alive_.

They hadn't discovered the treasure they had sought, but what they _had_ discovered would last longer than gold. Treasure was a fleeting reward; history was eternal.

After a moment more, he drew back and shoved himself to his feet, offering his hand to pull her up.

"It's a long way back," he said. "We'd best be on our way."

And the spell was broken, and Penelo was left to ponder the consequences of a kiss that could not be put down to fever madness.


	13. Chapter 13

It had taken an hour of walking to make it back to the outskirts of Galina, and by the time they had scaled the rolling hills that lead down into the open-air skyport where the _Strahl_ was docked, Penelo was exhausted, ravenous, and parched. The last of the water had run out and her legs felt like they might very well collapse beneath her. They had had nothing to eat since the dried meat that morning, and it was already early evening.

But what she wanted most was a shower. Her skin felt cracked and dry; she was coated in dirt and dust and her arms were still slathered in the remnants of vine-sap and speckles of crusted, dried blood. It seemed to take forever for the _Strahl's_ dock to extend, and then they were both of them rushing for their respective rooms, eager to shed the grime of their journey.

Her shirt had to be peeled off her skin. The blood that caked it crackled as it pulled free, leaving rusty streaks on her chest and abdomen. Her clothes were ruined, and she cast them on the floor without too much concern because there were more important things to attend to – such as the bathroom, filled with all manner of sweetly-scented soaps.

She turned the taps, adjusting the temperature to just shy of scalding and the pressure to a brutal pound, then climbed into the tub and, in deference to her unsteady legs, unceremoniously sat beneath the pouring showerhead, letting the water pummel the sore muscles in her back. Steam billowed, collecting in the shower until she might as well have been encapsulated by a fluffy white cloud. Beneath the heavy stream of water, dried blood flaked free and washed down the drain. Dirt followed suit, sluicing off her skin and turning the bottom of the tub a rusty brown.

Her palm stung; the bandage was saturated with water, pulling away from the rent skin. She unwound it gingerly and discarded it over the side of the tub, then splayed her palm open to inspect the damage. It was deeper than she had realized, bisecting her palm from the base of her index finger nearly to her wrist. It might even need stitching. At least the slice itself was clean; it was smooth and even, and provided she cared for it properly, it would probably only result in minimal scarring.

She seemed to be collecting scars like some people collected works of art.

Balthier had been wounded, too – though he had not complained of it, the death adder's fang had pierced his arm deeply. She hadn't seen him change out his own bandage at all, and she wondered how bad the damage had truly been. If he had been ignoring his own pain merely so that she wouldn't feel guilt over accepting the last of the potions.

With her good hand, she massaged a palmful of shampoo through her hair, sighing as the sweet floral scent permeated the steamy air. It wasn't the fragrance she would have chosen, but beggars could hardly afford to be choosers, and at least it offered up a comforting froth of cleansing bubbles, turning the matted, tangled strands of her hair smooth and silky. She dipped her head back, allowing the spray of water to rinse clean her hair. Cleansing the remnants of sap took a bit more work and dedication, requiring repeated rinses and careful peeling from her skin.

But at last she was clean – or at least passably so. Fran's toiletries were full of fragrant oils that eased the aches and pains, soothed her dry skin, and restored it to a healthy glow. And still, though the shower had served its purpose and there was really no reason to linger, she made no move to climb out. The relentless pounding of the water was comforting, and the steam relieved the pain of her scratched throat.

She'd been in the bathroom so long, she was faintly surprised that the hot water hadn't yet run out. Doubtless Balthier had gotten out of his own shower ages ago.

She rested her head against the wall and sighed. Balthier had kissed her – _twice_. Once was a fluke, a bit of madness, a fever-induced folly.

Twice _meant_ something.

But for the life of her, she couldn't determine what.

* * *

Penelo remained in the shower until the hot water _did_ run out, then wrapped up in a fluffy towel and steeled herself for the coming unpleasantness of crawling back into her filthy clothing. At least she could take comfort in the fact that, having disregarded Balthier's suggestion of purchasing higher-quality clothing, she would only be out the small bit of gil that the ruined ones had cost.

But when she opened the bathroom door, her discarded clothes were gone from where they had been carelessly tossed upon the floor, and resting on the bed was a new set of fresh, clean, neatly folded clothes. Done up in a dusky peach color, they were clearly a good deal more expensive than the ruined set had been. The fabric was soft, good quality; it slipped beneath her fingers with none of the customary roughness she had become acclimated to. It wouldn't be given to wrinkle or scratch.

She picked up the blouse, held it up to her chest with one hand – her size, not Fran's, so clearly not poached from amongst Fran's belongings.

Which could only mean that Balthier had taken it into his head to purchase them himself – he had clearly been busy in town while she had been ensconced in the shower. A knot of frustration rose in her throat; she crumpled the clothing in her fist and stalked to the door, flinging it open to proceed down the corridor. The rich scent of cooked meat, coupled with the spicy tang of garlic met her, told her that Balthier would likely be found somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

When she rounded the corner, the clothing held aloft accusingly, she was baffled to see Balthier standing at the small stove, hovering over a couple of pans. His hair was clean and dry, his face freshly-shaven, and he'd changed into a clean set of clothes. He hadn't noticed her yet; he was keeping a careful eye on whatever it was he was cooking, taking his attention from one pan to sprinkle a pinch of fresh rosemary into the other. The savory scent permeated the air, tingling in her nose.

"You cook?" It hadn't been what she'd intended to ask, but it had slipped out anyway.

His head jerked up momentarily, as if startled by her sudden appearance, but he quickly returned his attention to the pans. "Naturally," he said. "How had you imagined I subsisted?"

"I don't know," she said. "I guess I thought you were the sort to just…frequent restaurants."

"My travels often take me far from cities, with nary a restaurant to be found. I should starve if I did not cook for myself." He retrieved a pair of tongs, used them to flip the meat cooking in the pan, and there was a delicious sizzle and a burst of renewed fragrance of cooking meat. "Of course, I generally prefer the convenience of restaurant dining when it is readily available."

"Then why cook now?" She gestured out the window, to the walls enclosing Galina not a hundred yards away. "Galina's bound to have dozens of restaurants."

"Hundreds," he said. "But I rather thought you might not be up for a journey into the city tonight. It has been a trying few days." He busied himself with collecting a couple of plates from the cabinet overhead, setting them out upon the countertop. "You've developed an alarming habit of wearing towels in place of clothing."

She frowned at the comment and took a seat at the bar, lifting the clothing in her hand for his inspection. " _You've_ developed an alarming habit of attempting to choose my clothing for me."

He bent over the pans, using the tongs to plate the food, and said in a chiding tone, "Darling. They were ruined. You must know they were."

"They were still mine!" She huffed her annoyance; he didn't have to be so…so godsdamned _right_ all the time. But she subsided into a sulky silence when he passed a plate of food across the bar to her and set silverware beside it. Her stomach rumbled.

"Would you _honestly_ have preferred to wear them again? They were so filthy that it was a trial just to persuade a seamstress to accept them for measurement purposes alone," he said, collecting his own plate and silverware to claim his own seat at the bar.

Next to him with his elegant table manners, she felt clumsy and common. She had never learned how to manage utensils so that they did not scrape roughly against the plate. And she shifted in her seat, wishing she'd put on the clothes regardless of their origin. The towel kept riding up her thighs, making her uncomfortably aware of how little it actually covered.

"I don't have the money for frivolous purchases," she said between bites. "I don't have the luxury of purchasing such fine clothing; I have to economize for the time being."

"That's a shame. I've already put in an order for several more sets," he said, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.

She turned on him with a glare. "You didn't."

"I did." His gaze remained fixed upon his plate, as though he were giving their conversation only half of his attention. "Extra clothing is _not_ a luxury, it is a necessity. The alternative is –" He set his fork down and waved his hand to indicate her towel, "– _that_."

She felt a flush creeping over her cheeks, and dropped her fork to clutch the towel tighter around her chest. "I'm sorry if I've offended your delicate sensibilities," she sniffed. "I'll go change."

"I'm not offended," he said, and his words were even and measured. "But I am a man, and so perhaps it isn't the wisest course of action to wear so little when you've other options."

She pushed back her chair, tucked the set of clothes beneath her arm, and said, "That's ridiculous. Fran wears far less." And what little she _did_ wear was far, _far_ more provocative, besides.

"I have never desired Fran in that way," he said, carefully, as if he had meant more than he had said.

She didn't understand. And then, quite suddenly, she _did_ understand. And she was glad that he had his back to her, that he hadn't bothered to face her, because the very last thing she would have wanted was for him to witness her making a goose of herself with her slack-jawed stare.

"I don't…" She clenched her good hand on the loose ends of the towel, backing up a step. The small dining area had somehow grown too close to contain both of them; though he posed no obvious threat – wasn't even facing her – it was imperative to put a bit more distance between them. "You didn't…five years ago, you didn't…" She couldn't even get out a complete thought, couldn't sort through the disordered jumble of them swirling around in her head long enough to form a coherent sentence.

He made a rough, vaguely annoyed sound deep in his throat. "Five years ago, you were a child."

She swallowed hard. "I'm not that sort of person," she said. "I don't...have _those_ kinds of desires."

He made a small sound, and she thought he might've tried to disguise a laugh as a cough. "I'm sure you believe that's true," he said. "But you learned that lesson from a man who lied to you at every turn. If the source cannot be trusted, how, then, can the conclusion be trusted?"

Her throat was dry again, her knees trembled like reeds in the wind. She braced her palm against the sill of the window against her back, wincing at the pressure of the varnished wood on her torn flesh. But the pain was bracing, stabilizing. It snapped her out of the daze she'd reeled within.

"You don't understand," she said.

"I understand all too well," he replied. He pushed his plate away and spun the chair to face her. "Humiliation is powerful motivator. Those without conscience use it to maintain control." He slung his arm over the back of the chair, ostensibly to make it clear that he intended to remain seated, that he posed no physical threat. "You don't have to please him any longer."

"Oh, instead I should please _you_?" she snapped.

"I didn't say that," he said evenly. "In fact, you should seek to please only yourself." He curled his arm, tilted his head to rest his cheek in his palm. "I do know what it is like," he said, "to hear someone else's voice in my head, heaping all manners of insults upon me, telling me that I would never be good enough, that I would always be a disgrace. For a long while, I listened – and I was the worse for it."

She wondered if he were speaking of his father. Certainly there had seemed to be no love lost between the two men; Balthier had resented his father's madness and ambition, and Cidolfus had resented his son's refusal to ally with him. Her lips compressed into a firm line, unwilling to interrupt.

"I should hate for you to fall victim to the same," he said. "You must exorcise that voice, or else he will control you still."

"He doesn't control me," she said, in a hard little voice that burned with anger.

"You see yourself through a lens of shame," he said. "And that's the real tragedy – that you don't understand how misplaced it is." He unfolded himself from the chair, noting ruefully that she recoiled as if he might make a grab for her. Instead he collected the discarded plates, shuffling them into the sink. "I am not asking you go to bed with me," he said, and waved to indicate the clothing tucked beneath her arm. "I _am_ asking that you refrain from tempting me, however unintentionally. The clothing is mere self-preservation, protection for the both of us."

Her face burned with mortification. "I really didn't mean to," she squeaked.

"I know that," he said. "It's hardly your fault that I find it difficult to concentrate when you are…less than clothed. I make the request out of deference to your wishes." He stood in the entryway to the small kitchen, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest. "You've had too few choices of late. I won't take this one from you."

She managed a shaky nod, peeling herself away from the window. "I'll, uh…it's getting late. I think I'll just…go to bed early tonight." Her voice sounded high and awkward even to her own ears, and she fought to keep from cringing.

But he called her name as she passed him, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"You'll notice that I haven't promised not to offer…encouragement," he said, and the hint of a grin lingered at the corners of his mouth. "But the choice is always yours. You owe me nothing, and I will never ask for more than you are willing to give."

What a novel concept; she could feel the doubt twisting her mouth into a frown. In her experience, there was always the expectation of more from men, and bitter recriminations followed swiftly if they did not receive it. She glanced down at the clothing tucked beneath her arm – had Raen purchased them, he would have felt entitled to the use of her body as a reward.

He read the telling look, and shook his head in consternation. "A gift," he said. "Only a gift – without strings or expectations. I don't value you so cheaply that I would think to buy your affections." But her face was still etched with doubt, and he sighed. "I can see that it will take some convincing. Go on to bed, then. Tomorrow we must keep our promise to Anora."

And she nodded, flustered, and fled to the safety of Fran's room.

* * *

Penelo had risen with the sun for the first time in memory, jarred into alertness by the light streaming violently through the window straight into her eyes. She hadn't slept well. Her brain had churned tirelessly into the night, mulling over Balthier's revelation.

She ought to have cut and run. There was no shame in cutting her losses and getting out before she was in too deep – it was what she should have done years ago, before she'd gotten herself so entangled with Raen.

But a part of her – a very small part – wanted Balthier to be _better_. To be honest, to prove that his words weren't merely the empty promises she had heard so often before. She had seen the worst of the world already, had spent so long mired in hopelessness and uncertainty. Just once, she wanted to be wrong, to have her honestly-earned cynicism proven unfounded. Just once, she wanted someone to rise above her expectations.

She didn't know if Balthier was the right person for the job. But she was accustomed enough to disappointment that she imagined that she could take it in stride. She could always leave. He had already given her that precious gift – she could leave whenever she liked; there was no chain to compel her to stay.

And that, at least, was worth something – that the worst of his sins so far had been to insist upon a proper array of clothing. If one discounted that...other thing.

He said he expected nothing. He said the choice was hers, that he would never pressure her for more than she wished to give.

Gods help her – she wanted him to _mean_ it. She didn't _want_ to go running off like a thief in the night; she didn't want to give up the easy camaraderie they so frequently shared. But she didn't think she would ever be able to play on his level, and he was bound to be disappointed.

But until then, she supposed she might be able to offer him the benefit of the doubt.

And she wasn't planning on staying longer than necessary, anyway – just long enough to earn enough capital to finance herself going forward. Because surely Fran would tire of babysitting Vaan in short order. And then she would be superfluous; there would be no excuse for her to remain.

It was all just a temporary arrangement. And provided Balthier kept his word, it could be both pleasant and profitable.

And so she reached for the clothes he'd purchased – the only thing she had to wear, curse him and his meddling – and reluctantly donned them. They were soft and pretty, neither too loose nor too constricting, and the smooth slide of the fabric over her skin was unmistakably quality. It annoyed her, in a vague sort of way, that they were so perfect – just once, she'd like to see him muck something up. His incredible aptitude for preparation was irritating; Vaan flew so frequently by the seat of his pants that Penelo had become accustomed to his recklessness, accustomed to extricating themselves from danger only by the skin of their teeth. But Balthier left very little to chance – not even something so inconsequential as selecting clothing. And that was unsettling, because it carried with it the suggestion that he would always be several steps ahead of her, which was a prospect she could ill afford.

The _Strahl_ was silent and still; no betraying noise met her ears as she crept from the room. The corridor was empty, the deck deserted. Balthier must still be asleep. An image rose in her mind; his mouth twisted in sulky petulance as he'd demanded five more minutes of sleep when she'd tried to wake him, in the depths of the jungle.

Not a morning person, then, she supposed. A minor imperfection, but something, at least, to blur the line between paragon and person. She rummaged through the cabinets in search of coffee, assembled the supplies and set it up to brew. While it began to percolate, she searched the small pantry and smaller refrigerator for the makings of some sort of breakfast.

She didn't know how he took his coffee, she realized, as she dished out a generous serving of eggs and bacon onto a plate, setting it at the bar. She proceeded down the corridor and tapped lightly at his door. No sound from within, not even the smallest acknowledgement of her knock.

She inched the door open, peeking within. Through the crack she could only see the tiniest sliver of the bed. Tangled white sheets and a twisted grey blanket dominated, thrown into rough peaks and valleys, as if their occupant were the worst sort of restless sleeper. A slice of bronzed skin cut through them, but she could hardly tell from this angle whether it might be his arm or back.

The door creaked as she eased it open further. His head was buried beneath a mound of pillows, bracketed by his arms. The abused covers had fallen to his waist as if they were embroiled in a bitter struggle to protect some small amount of modesty.

"Balthier?" she called.

A groan emanated from beneath the pillows; the muscles in his back flexed and stretched. With alarming accuracy, one arm dislodged itself from beneath the pile of pillows, snatched one up, and lobbed it in her direction.

She gave a little shriek of surprise, jerking the door back to block the sudden attack, then covered her mouth to stifle the burst of laughter that clawed to escape from her throat. She took a deep breath, swallowed it down, and eased the door open again.

"Breakfast is ready." This time she was prepared; she snapped the door shut, waited for the soft pop of the feather pillow hitting the door, and slid it open once again.

"Coffee, too." That, at least, garnered a response that did not result in a projectile launched at her head.

Although she had not asked, he grumbled in a sleep-roughened voice, "Cream. No sugar."

"Right." She smothered another snicker; other than the guttural rumble, he'd made no concessions toward rising – not even the tiniest twitch that would suggest he had any intention of getting out of bed any time soon.

She closed the door and proceeded back to the kitchen, wondering if she ought to have actually waited until she'd _seen_ him up and about to begin cooking. Nonetheless, she selected a pair of mugs from a cabinet and set about preparing his coffee the way he'd requested it.

As she finished the last of the cleaning up, drying the pans with a clean cloth and setting them back into their drawers, she heard the creak of a door in the corridor, followed by the steady tread of Balthier's boots on the wood-paneled floors.

He looked…grumpy. Though he was perfectly attired and his hair had clearly been combed into perfect obedience, he had the straight-shouldered, taut-jawed look of a man who had been unfairly maligned, as if, merely by waking him, she had done him a terrible disservice.

He grabbed for the mug she offered him as if it were a lifeline, curling his fingers around it protectively and tossing back its still-scalding contents in an almost worrying sort of desperation. His shoulders hunched as he dropped into the chair with something less than his usual grace, and he handed the empty mug back to her, presumably to be refilled.

Once she had prepared a new cup, she pushed it back across the counter to him, along with some silverware.

He stared at the food on the plate before him as if he could not quite determine what its purpose might be. "It's far too early to eat," he grated at last.

Penelo's brows rose. "It's gone half past eight already."

He shuddered, as if the very thought were untenable. "The world does not exist before ten," he said.

She pursed her lips against the threat of a smile. "I don't recall you being so lazy," she said. "Five years ago, we were frequently up before dawn."

"There is a distinct difference between _needs must_ and willfully _choosing_ to arise at an ungodly hour when there is no call to do so," he said sulkily.

She nudged the plate toward him again. "I went to the trouble of making it," she said. "The least you can do is go to the trouble of eating it."

He gave an irritated grumble into his cup of coffee, but even so he reached for the fork she'd laid beside the plate, and took a bite. Though he had claimed not to be hungry, his eyes closed in obvious pleasure, and after that first bite he attacked the food with new vigor.

"See?" She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm a good cook, too. I just haven't had much of an opportunity for it until recently."

"I was already aware," he said as he polished off the last of the eggs. "You did most of the cooking five years ago."

"Oh." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess…I didn't think anyone had really noticed."

" _I_ noticed." His green-eyed gaze speared her with vivid intensity.

"Oh," she repeated lamely. Feeling the heat of a flush come on beneath his ardent scrutiny, she ducked her head and went through the mechanical motions of washing her hands in the small sink. A few moments later she was aware of the heat of his body at her back as his hand slipped past her to slide the plate and utensils into the sink.

His voice was warm, rumbling near her ear. "Thank you for breakfast. Shall we take advantage of the early start, then, and do our duty to Anora?"

She cleared her throat and dried her hands on the dish towel. "Yes," she said. "We might as well."

There was the lightest pressure just on the top of her head, stirring her hair, as if he'd brushed his cheek there. But when she turned around, he was already walking away.

* * *

Galina was a riot of activity, flying in the face of the initial impression she had formed of it some days before. She had thought, before, that she had never witnessed a town where the forward march of time seemed to be of so little consequence. Despite its massive, sprawling size, its citizens had moved at a speed that could, at best, be called lazy, as if there were nothing of more import to do than to take a leisurely stroll through the marketplace.

"Oh, yes," Balthier murmured, after a quick glance at her startled face, "I may have forgotten to mention: the aftershocks of Anora's cataclysm were felt well into the city. I suspect they are preparing scouting expeditions to investigate."

Penelo dodged a man who, overladen with all manner of weaponry, barreled through the crowd at a high clip giving no care to who might be occupying the space he passed through. "Hm," she sighed, as she slanted a cross look at the man, who remained oblivious to her presence, "I suppose we ought to inform someone, then, that there's no cause for alarm?"

"I doubt that even word from on high would persuade them," he said. "But we should find our way to some sort of historical society – they'll doubtless wish to send out scouts to survey the tomb before it gets ransacked by looters. Although…" His hand touched her back to direct her away from the swell of the crowd, and the heat of his fingers seared her skin even through her shirt. "We've a stop or two to make along the way."

She followed along in his wake as he navigated through the flood of people, wading through the open-air market and down a side street, where the crowd had thinned. At last he stopped before a nondescript shop and pushed open the door, beckoning for her to follow.

Behind the scarred wooden counter, an elderly man, hunched and wizened with age, blinked up at them from behind thick-rimmed spectacles. "Ahh, you've returned. This is the lady, then, I take it, sir?"

"Yes." Balthier again laid his hand gently upon her back, urging her forward. "I thought you might prefer a more accurate measurement."

"Quite, quite." He brandished a measuring tape, scuttling out from behind the counter so swiftly that Penelo nearly drew back in shock. "A challenge, sir, the likes of which I've not been presented in all of my days. I think you'll be pleased with the results, however." The measuring tape snapped in his hands as he drew it along the length of Penelo's leg, wrapped it round her calf, and draped it around her hips. The results he seemed to commit to memory, muttering beneath his breath. "Only a few darts and a bit of hemming necessary, sir – it won't take but a moment if you'd care to wait."

Penelo exhaled in relief as the shopkeeper scurried away, diverting her attention to the shop itself. It didn't look like any clothier's shop she'd ever seen – not that she'd been within more than a handful. The interior was masculine, done up in understated browns, and there wasn't a fashion magazine to be found, nor the bits of ribbon and buttons and other such fripperies she'd have expected. Instead there were large strips of leather hide dangling from the rafters, or set against the wall on massive rollers, and brass togs of varying varieties set within rows of drawers.

"Leathers are expensive," she whispered uneasily to Balthier. "Far out of my price range, certainly."

"I struck a bargain with the shopkeeper," he said. "It won't cost us a single gil."

She was pondering how that could possibly be true when at last the shopkeeper returned, holding over his arm a pair of trousers. As he approached, the light pouring in through the window caught on them, and they glowed with a faint iridescence.

"Took a bit of doing," the shopkeeper said. "I worked the night through. But it polished up nicely, and I thought a nice black fabric backing would be a sight more comfortable." He offered them to Penelo. "I do have a back room, miss, if you'd like to try them on."

She accepted the offering, holding out her arms to take it. The snakeskin trousers gleamed, light trickling over the shiny scales like water. It had been polished to a high shine, oiled to maintain its sleek smoothness, and worked to supple pliability. The interior had been lined with a velvety soft fabric, which would undoubtedly guard well against cold weather, as well as provide a bit of extra comfort.

"There was enough left over for another pair of trousers," Balthier murmured. "The shopkeeper believes that such an unusual material will fetch a high price; he was more than willing to trade these for the remainder of the skin."

She ducked her head, for a moment in terrible danger of crying, unspeakably touched. He'd remembered what she'd wanted – and he'd seen it done for her, and managed to do it without shelling out a small fortune on her behalf, without making her feel further indebted to him.

"They're perfect," she said.

And Balthier was momentarily dazzled by the bright smile she cast him, for it held all the warmth of the sun.


	14. Chapter 14

The trousers had been a terrible idea, and Balthier had realized it not half a second after she'd pranced out from the shop's back room, looking gloriously thrilled. She paused before the long mirror that hung on the wall opposite the counter, twisting this way and that to admire the fit of the pants, the way they shimmered in the light.

He ought to have provided more specific instructions to the shopkeeper, he realized. Clearly, the man was a master of his craft with a particularly discerning eye, for the fit of the trousers was nothing short of indecent. They hugged her hips and conformed to the sleek lines of her legs as if she'd been poured into them, and Balthier felt a twitch coming on, a helpless spasm of the tiny muscles beneath his right eye, as if this last bit of business was too much to be borne.

But she was so deliriously pleased with them; there was the flash of a dimple in her cheek, the sweet, upward tilt of her lips, which she gave great efforts toward stifling only to have it burst forth again a moment later. She performed a little pirouette, and he was intensely aware that the low-slung waist of the pants really only reached her hips, exposing several inches of milky-white skin between it and the hem of her blouse.

He couldn't bring himself to sour her sunny mood. He was going to have to let her enjoy her new trousers even if it killed him.

She paused at the mirror, bending at the waist to tighten the laces of her boots, and he stifled a groan.

It likely _would_ kill him.

She sauntered toward him, and her smile faltered as she approached, her pale brows drawing together.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look…disturbed." She crossed her arms over her chest as she scrutinized him, and the motion pulled the neckline of her shirt down, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the shadowed valley between her breasts. Through sheer dint of will, he resisted the temptation to glance down.

"Fine," he said, in a clipped tone. "Just fine." _Twitch, twitch._

Doubtfully, she frowned up at him, easing closer. "You don't _look_ fine."

"Must be allergies." He gave a weak imitation of a sniffle. "Let's be off, then." And he turned on his heel and exited the shop, hoping she would at least give her farewells to the shopkeeper, thereby buying him a few moments to regain his shattered composure.

Lady Luck was _not_ on his side; Penelo followed directly after. There was an effervescent bounce in her step as she approached, and she was busy cramming her discarded trousers into her bag, and thus did not notice the brief flicker of agony that crossed his face.

In true sunlight, the trousers were a hundred times worse. No, a thousand – they caught and held the light with all the shining brilliance of an oil slick, a rainbow of color dancing up and down her legs with each subtle movement. He'd never seen anything like it in his life, and the _last_ thing he wanted was to be caught gawking at her backside.

He wasn't the only one. A group of men had poured into the street from the shop next door, and the two in front had staggered to a halt, arrested by the sight of Penelo's snakeskin-clad derriere, creating a miniature bottleneck in the foot traffic.

One of them mouthed something that looked suspiciously like _good gods_ , while the other stared in mute rapture.

Penelo, blast her, remained utterly oblivious. Finally, she succeeded in stuffing the spare trousers within her bag and wrenched closed the togs that bound the flap. "Where next?" she asked.

"The tavern," he said. While her face remained averted, he cast a killing glance over his shoulder at the group of men who had not yet managed to shake off their stupefaction. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "I need a drink."

Her head popped up, expression perplexed. "It's _morning_ ," she said.

"It's evening somewhere," he growled.

"What does _that_ have to do with –" She broke off with a sigh, as he had already begun striding quickly away. She jogged along to catch up with him, matching her pace to his, wending through the thick crowd.

Even the tavern was crowded, with patrons milling around, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Balthier caught a glimpse of Old Rohan tucked away in a bad corner, frowning over his whiskey. The old man did a double-take as he caught sight of them, his bushy brows receding into his hairline.

A rumble of gravelly laughter escaped him as they approached. "Didn't expect to see ye back here," he said. "Thought better of it, I take it?"

"Not at all," Balthier said. He fished in his own bag and retrieved a heavy book, placing it gently down on the table before Old Rohan. "We found the tomb, and more besides. The effects thereof are responsible for the chaos in the city."

Old Rohan looked doubtfully at the book. "Naw," he said. "There ain't no one who's made it through that jungle in hundreds 'o years."

Balthier shrugged. "It will require little external verification," he said. "There's a path straight there, now. There are expeditions being mounted as we speak. You'll have your confirmation in a few days at the most."

Old Rohan's brow furrowed in consternation. "I ain't much for readin'," he said. "This book here _looks_ old enough, I reckon. It's got somethin' in it? 'Bout the king?"

"Your king turned out to be a queen," Penelo said, skirting around Balthier. "And she wasn't really evil so much as misunderstood."

Old Rohan squinted at her, his good eye narrowing to a slit as his gaze raked her. "Yer shammin' me."

She shook her head, her fair hair bobbing over her shoulders. "And we ran into one of your death adders, too." She jerked her head towards Balthier. "It got its fangs into him, but I killed it."

"Naw." The hand that wasn't clenched on the glass of whiskey drifted up to touch the scar bisecting his face. "Ye ain't got it in ye."

"Hm." She propped one booted foot up on the chair beside Old Rohan, presenting her snakeskin-clad leg for his inspection. "I've got a brand new pair of snakeskin pants that say otherwise."

Old Rohan choked, but unlike the younger generation of men who had been enamored of her body, _he_ was focused solely upon the shiny snakeskin. His jaw worked as he tried to formulate a response, his beard quivering. "Never thought I'd see…" He swallowed hard. "Ye _did_ do it, then. Can't hardly believe it. Ye two?" He managed a rusty laugh.

"We've come through worse," Balthier said. He slid into the seat opposite Old Rohan and signaled for a waitress. "You would hardly be the first to underestimate us."

The waitress came to the table, carrying two mugs of bitter ale. "This one's yours, sir," she said, handing one to Balthier. "And yours, miss." She extended the other to Penelo.

Penelo shook her head, slanting a chiding glance at Balthier, who had already swallowed down half of his. "It's _far_ too early –"

"It's been purchased already," the waitress said. "From the lad over there, at the bar." And she nodded to the gentleman in question, who offered a brief wave to Penelo.

"For the gods' sake," Balthier snarled. He finished off the last of his ale, plunked the empty mug down on the waitress' tray, and snatched up Penelo's. Then he turned deliberately to face Penelo's admirer, lifted the mug in his direction, and took a drink. The waitress clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, moving on to the next table, and Penelo stared at Balthier in open-mouthed astonishment.

"That was _mine_ ," she said.

"You didn't want it," he gritted out from between clenched teeth.

"It was still mine!"

Old Rohan coughed into his fist and mumbled something beneath his breath. "That earthquake – how do you reckon ye caused it?"

"Not us – the queen." Balthier resisted Penelo's attempts to free the mug from his hand. "Her spirit had been trapped in the tomb, her hatred for her tormentors all-consuming. When we at last convinced her to move on to the hereafter, she shed her hatred, and it resulted in a rather deep chasm running the length of the jungle from the tomb all the way into the grasslands. For those who might wish to explore the tomb, the jungle will no longer prove an obstacle." He drained the dregs of the ale and at last surrendered it to Penelo, who glared at him balefully. "Perhaps you might know where to locate some sort of historical society – we promised the queen that we would see to restoring her to her proper place in history."

Old Rohan's grizzled face twisted in thought, his wrinkled cheeks pulling in. "Ye'll want to head to the Old Town square," he said. "It ain't more 'en ten minutes walk from here. They got some gents what pay from time to time fer artifacts and such. Put 'em all up in a fancy museum what fer the people to look at. Big grey building right on the corner near the water, ye can't miss it."

"My thanks," Balthier said. He withdrew a wad of bills from his pocket, laying a few notes on the table in payment for the ale, and then extended another couple of notes to Old Rohan, who reached for it eagerly. "For the information," he said.

"Weren't no trouble," Old Rohan said, abashed. He shook his head ruefully. "Still can't believe it were ye," he said. "Never woulda thought."

* * *

"Well," Penelo sighed, as she dropped into a bar chair overlooking the _Strahl's_ tiny kitchen. "I suppose a thousand gil is better than nothing."

"Darling," Balthier chided, "They're a _preservation_ society. They're not fine art collectors; they collect history for the edification of future generations. You could hardly expect a fortune from them." He took the seat beside her, bracing one arm on the counter. "Besides, we didn't undertake the task for the promise of a reward, therefore anything gained is merely a bonus."

"Maybe," she said. "But a thousand gil? Really? That'll hardly pay for more than a few nights at an inn." She folded her arms on the counter, pillowing her head upon them. Her lips quirked in a wry smile. "They _were_ happy to acquire those books, though, weren't they?"

Ecstatic would have been a more apt description. The society's docent had gone into veritable paroxysms of joy at the prospect of adding such books to the collection. And then he'd promptly scolded Balthier for touching such an ancient, fragile tome with his bare hands.

"I think they'll soon have more books than just the ones we've given them. Enough, certainly, to shed light on ancient history, and to restore Anora to her proper place." He twisted in his chair to face her. "What's troubling you?"

Another heartfelt sigh followed. "I hate being dependent upon the goodwill of others," she admitted. "I was hoping…well, I was hoping that the treasure we found would fetch a high enough price that I wouldn't have to…burden you any longer."

His brows drew together. "You're not a burden."

She managed a bitter chuckle. "But I am. I always seem to be – I was a burden to Ashe, and now I'm a burden to you. The cost of everything comes from your pocket."

"You think I begrudge you the price of a few new outfits?" He sounded offended, as if she had attacked his honor.

Another laugh. "It's not a _few_ , Balthier – dear gods, do you think I didn't see the size of that package? It must be at least six."

It was ten, but he was hardly going to admit to that _now_. "You honestlybelieve six outfits to be excessive?"

She fixed him with a reproachful look. "When I was a child, I never had more than three at any given time. Of _course_ I think six is excessive. Look, I know you were raised in the lap of luxury," she said, "but I'm _used_ to economizing. I'm comfortable with it. I could never be comfortable spending a fortune on closets and closets full of clothing."

There was a sudden hint of tightness at the corners of his mouth, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Where did you get the impression," he asked, "that I was raised in the lap of luxury?"

She blinked. "Weren't you? I thought that your father was wealthy."

"Oh, he was," he said, in a biting voice. "He was that, indeed. However, I did not share in the benefits of his wealth."

She frowned. "Why not?"

There was a moment of tense silence, as thick and dense as cement, as he considered what to say in response. His jaw was stiff and unyielding, as if he regretted the impulse that had made him correct her for her misapprehension, regretted that now she sought an explanation that he wasn't entirely certain that he wished to give.

But at last he sighed, and unclenched his jaw against the words that were locked within. And he studied her face, searching for signs of judgment as he let them free.

"Bastards are seldom welcome in noble households." Though the words were even, they lacked inflection, as if he had spent years acclimating himself to them, inoculating himself against the pain they caused until he could recite them by rote, without thought or feeling.

Her face crumpled in sympathy. "Oh," she said. "I'm so sorry – how cruel. He abandoned you?"

"Until my mother died, and there was no one left to care for me." He stretched out his arm, reaching across the counter to snag a bottle of wine, plucking the cork from the bottle deftly. He was still somewhat shy of sober, owing to the two ales he had poured down his throat just an hour or so earlier, but the words spilling from his throat required something to soothe it against the bitter burn of them. And now that they were coming at last, he found he could not stifle them. "Her name was Vianne. She was an opera dancer, and very beautiful. She had a short-lived affair with my father, resulting in my birth. Of course, she could hardly afford to support the both of us on such a meager salary, so she applied to my father for aid." He took a deep drink. "He told her to go to the devil."

He felt Penelo's small hand touch his shoulder, her fingers curling as if she were bracing the both of them. As if she were encouraging him to speak, not to satisfy her curiosity, but because he needed to.

"But you were his son," she said.

"He had two already by his wife, both of them grown. He had no need of an illegitimate son. _Then_ ," he clarified, with a sour laugh. "But the same year my mother died, he lost the both of them to the fruits of their excesses. One was caught bedding the wife of another nobleman and died at the point of a pistol, and the other accrued massive gambling debts, and was found, bound and gagged and bloated beyond recognition, floating in a river."

She made a soft sound of realization. "And then," she said, "you became valuable."

"That's right," he said. "I was eight years old, and I would've been taken to a workhouse had he not read my mother's obituary in the papers." He took another drink and offered the bottle to Penelo in the interests of courtesy, but she shook her head. "I didn't want to go with him," he said. "But he told me he was my father and he wanted to take me home with him. I had no other option, and so I went."

She drew in a swift breath. "But, his wife –"

He laughed. "Very good. You're cleverer than I was. Than _he_ was, even. She shrieked at him like a common fishwife when we arrived." He shrugged. "I can hardly blame her; what woman wishes to house the proof of her husband's infidelities beneath her own roof? And so I was shunted off to school more or less immediately. I was never allowed to come home for holidays, for it was never my home to return to."

Her brow furrowed. "I can't imagine turning my back on an innocent child," she said soberly.

"Then you are a kinder woman than she," he said. "Do you know, Cidolfus never stopped believing he could turn me to his cause. To my mind he had no reason to believe it; we seldom spoke. But believe it he did, up until the very last moment – and so he never wrote me out of his will, and I inherited everything when we slew him." He hunched his shoulders. "I ought to take a perverse pleasure in it – the woman who practically threw me out of her house is now dependent upon me for her living. Everything she has belongs to me, every luxury she enjoys is at my will alone."

She tilted her head, interested. "And do you? Take pleasure in it, I mean."

He heaved a sigh. "I allow her to live in that house, and when she sends scathing letters demanding money to me through my solicitor, I pay it – and I feel nothing."

"But why? You don't owe her anything."

"She was as badly used as my mother," he said. "I can't fault her –"

" _I_ fault her!" Penelo cried. "You were a _child_. You don't owe her an apology for having the audacity to exist!"

And he stared at her as if he could not quite comprehend the meaning of the words. For a long moment, he only stared. And then, at last, he managed a chuckle, shaking his head. He collected her small hand from where it was still perched on his shoulder, grasped it in his, and brought it to his lips.

"I indulge myself with luxuries because they were denied me in my youth and now I have the means to acquire them. I don't intend to stop anytime soon, so you would be better served to stow your objections," he said. "I am familiar with burdens. _She_ is a burden. _You_ , however,are in no way a burden to me. I shall be very displeased if you ever again so much as think it." He pressed a kiss into her open palm and curled her fingers closed, as if to keep it safe. And then he reached out, cupped her face in his hands, and leaned forward to brush his lips briefly just across her forehead.

Her breath shuddered out; she was arrested by the warmth of his hands on her face, the gentle caress of his lips. "Balthier –"

"How is it," he asked, his voice a low rumble, "that you always seem to know precisely what to say?"

"I-I don't," she said, alarmed by the husky sound of her own voice. "It was nothing, just common sense –"

"Not so common, then, if I failed to divine it." His cheek brushed hers, and she caught a dizzying whiff of his aftershave, smooth and spicy. "Penelo, I would very much like to kiss you right now."

 _Oh_. She fidgeted, squirming on her chair. "I'm…not sure that's a good idea," she said.

"Perhaps not. And yet, I am asking anyway." There was a brief hesitation, and his fingers stroked across the curve of her chin. "Understand me, darling – I am _asking_."

She should have been apprehensive. Or – _more_ apprehensive. She should have knocked his hands away, scrambled off the chair, run for safety. But…she didn't feel _un_ safe at all. His hands stroked instead of grabbed; he had made no demands. And he patiently awaited her response, contenting himself with the smooth slide of her cheek against his. His breath warmed the skin just below her ear, coaxing a shiver from her.

"Maybe…just one." She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice; it had gone weak and thready.

He chuckled; she could feel his smile against her cheek. "No _maybes_ , pet. Yes or no – I told you I wouldn't decide for you."

Frustration welled; she was painfully aware of the heat of her own skin, the way she couldn't quite keep still, the way her flesh sizzled at just the lightest caress of his fingers as if he'd left a trail of fire in his wake. With a disorienting sense of shock, she realized it was arousal – he had, with just a few touches, managed to make her feel something she'd _never_ felt with Raen.

Lightheaded, she groped for his arms, clutching them with her hands to stabilize herself. The heat of his skin seared her fingers even through his shirt. " _Yes_ , but…just one," she said in a whisper.

"Mmm." His sound of satisfaction was breathed into the fine hairs behind her ear, and then his hands cupped her face, tilting it up, and her eyes closed.

His lips brushed hers in a feather-light caress, barely more than a whisper of sensation. And then his hands fell away from her face, and the heat of his body evaporated.

"I think," he said, "even if nothing more should come of this, I will cherish that expression for all of my days."

She opened her eyes, perplexed – but he had already shaken off her hold to rise, taking the empty wine bottle into the kitchen to dispose of it.

And she was still perched on the edge of her chair, bereft of the warmth of his touch, feeling uncomfortably like she'd received an electric shock. He'd played her for a fool.

She shoved herself out of her chair, indignation rising to the forefront. "What the hell was _that_?" she snapped.

"A kiss," he said, in a thoroughly unrepentant tone of voice, as he bent over the trash can, setting the bottle in carefully lest it crack into shards. "Why?" he asked, when he looked up at last. "Were you expecting something different?"

Her lips flattened into a firm, furious line. She slammed her palm on the counter; the sound cracked through the air, and her hand smarted, but at least it vented a bit of her anger. "You _know_ what I expected."

"Did you want another, then? I'd be happy to oblige." There was the hint of a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth; he was _enjoying_ her sharp flash of temper.

"No!" She withdrew her hand from the counter, fisted them both at her sides. "Don't…don't _toy_ with me," she said. "I don't play those sorts of games!"

"Darling," he said soothingly, "I assure you, I meant nothing of the sort. Only yesterday you looked at me as if you expected the worst sort of treatment – you expected me to treat you like _he_ did." He folded his arms over his chest. "It is my hope that you will see that it will not happen. Anything that _does_ happen will be _your_ choice – it won't be the result of coercion. And it certainly won't be qualified with _maybe_."

"I don't _want_ anything!" Her voice soared, infuriated.

"Well, not _now,_ certainly. You're in too much of a snit."

"I'm not in a snit!" But she was certainly shouting as though she were. With raw sound of irritation, she scowled at him. She didn't know exactly why she was so very angry – but surely it had something to do with thwarted desire. He had deliberately misled her, and she still…ached. And he _knew_ it, curse him. He knew precisely what he had done, and he wanted her to admit to it, to admit that he had affected her.

Well, he could go to hell – she would not be manipulated.

With a muttered expletive, she turned away and stomped down the corridor, slamming the door of Fran's room behind her, but his low, silky rumble of laughter had followed her down, and echoed afterwards in her ears.

* * *

She was painfully aware that she had been sulking, taking refuge in the privacy of Fran's room. It had been an hour or more, and she had only been sitting and brooding, staring at the brown paper-wrapped package at the end of the bed, the one that surely contained the clothing that Balthier had insisted upon purchasing.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to open it yet, fearful that her pleasure in the new things would weaken the depths of her fury.

And then there came a short, sharp rap at the door, and Balthier called her name, his voice muffled through the thick wooden door.

"What?" she snapped in response.

His even reply followed: "You have a decision to make." There was something in his tone that suggested a degree of hesitance, as though he would rather not have made the offer, that he was not certain of what her answer might be.

She felt her breath hitching her chest, dragged her knees up to loop her arms around them, and asked, "What is it?"

A heartbeat of silence. "Fran called," he said at last. "I neglected to tell her the name of the tavern in which you were found, and she and Vaan stumbled upon it. Vaan is now fully aware of where you are, and apparently he is _furious_."

She drew in a breath, reached for a pillow, and hugged it to her chest. "And?"

"And they are on their way to Galina as we speak," he said. "So now you must choose – do we wait for Vaan, or do we leave before they arrive?"

Oh – he thought that she would choose to go. That she might see Vaan as her savior, that, in her current fit of pique, she would leap at the chance to escape him.

She chewed her lower lip, said, "Fran probably wants to return. Vaan's got to be on her last nerve by now."

Through the door, he said, "Fran called while Vaan was otherwise occupied for the purpose of warning you – she is committed to wrangling Vaan if you would prefer to remain."

She suspected that he was attempting to modulate his voice lest he be accused once more of manipulation. And she realized that, in point of fact, there had been no real reason for him to even have informed her of Fran's call. She had not overheard it; she would've been none the wiser if he had merely set a course and sailed away. Instead, he had brought to her the information, laying it out in front of her to choose as she would, regardless of his own interests. And she knew, then, that he would not try to stop her if she chose to go, would not attempt to change her mind or cajole her into staying. Even for all his faults, he held steadfastly to at least that small bit of honor – pirate and thief he might be, but he would not betray the trust she had placed in him.

And she _did_ trust him. He had never been anything but honest with her; she knew precisely where they stood, because he had told her explicitly.

"By Fran's estimation, they will arrive in approximately two hours. You have time yet to decide," he said.

"No," she said. "I've already decided." She dug her nails into smooth surface of the pillow, carving divots into the plush softness and wishing desperately that she could peek into the future for just an instant to see whether or not she'd come to the right decision.

And there was nothing from the other side of the door, no sound at all – just a heavy silence fraught with tension.

"I want to go the Paramina Rift," she said. "It's been ages since I've last seen snow."

Still nothing. But then, she hadn't clarified her choice of companions.

So she said at last, as if it were an afterthought, "Vaan hates snow."

There was a small sound from the corridor, as if he had muffled a chuckle. He said only, "All right, then." And then there was the sound of his boots on the wood floor as he retreated, and moments later she heard the purr of the engines, and felt the _Strahl_ shift as she alighted into the sky, bound for elsewhere.


	15. Chapter 15

Twilight was falling over the horizon when the _Strahl_ landed, a monochromatic sunset coming down like a curtain upon the grey sky. The snow blanketing the ground was thick and dense, evidence of a blizzard that had recently passed, but the air was clear except for a few tiny snow flurries.

During the process of finding a safe place to land, Balthier had been moderately concerned that Penelo might actually jump out a window rather than wait the few extra minutes it would take. He saw in her overexcited behavior echoes of the past; she pressed her cheek against the window, staring out over the frigid landscape that stretched before them, bouncing up and down on her toes.

Whatever sulking she had felt compelled to do had gotten out of her system, and she was a bundle of energy just waiting to spring free of the ship to frolic in the snow, precisely as she had five years ago. He was gratified to see it; it seemed that with each passing day she rediscovered a bit more of herself, cast off a bit more of the wariness she had cloaked herself in. She hadn't had a panic attack since they'd been trapped in the jungle – and though he didn't think she was by any means fully recovered, he was inclined to believe she was on the path nonetheless.

The moment the _Strahl_ touched down, she leapt for the button that would extend the dock, jamming it until she heard the hum of the mechanism, and then she dived towards the rear of the ship, sprinting down the corridor to exit.

A blast of freezing air sailed in, the cool, clean bite of winter caressed Balthier's face as he followed her at a more leisurely pace. A trill of high, joyful laughter wafted to his ears on the back of the wind. He jammed an extra set of gloves into the pocket of his jacket, as Penelo had seen fit to dash off without them.

The blinding blanket of white was broken only by the occasional jut of grey stone marking the boundaries of the Paramina Rift. Some fifty yards or so ahead, Balthier could see that Penelo had dropped to her knees in the snow, clumping handfuls of it together. Though a bandage stretched across her injured palm, a steady supply of potions would keep the pain manageable until the wound had fully healed.

Her coat was overlarge – it had been acquired from the clothier's at a steep discount, because the lady who had ordered it had never gotten around to paying for it and so it was terribly out of season and style for the region. But it was made of soft blue wool and lined with fur, and it hung well past her knees, insulating her from the worst of the chill. Her head was obscured by the hood, but a few locks of platinum hair had managed to escape their ribbon, and tangled with the brisk wind in an artless dance.

Her fingers were already white with cold, but she didn't seem particularly bothered by it. She looked to be constructing some sort of tiny building, much like a sand castle. He supposed that, because sand had been all she had known as a child, the concept of snowmen would be unfamiliar to her, and so she had fallen back on the staple of her youth.

"How did you know?" she asked as he approached. "You couldn't have known when you bought the coat that I would want to come here. _I_ didn't even know." The hood of her coat fell back as she peered up at him; her cheeks glowed a wind-burned pink.

But he _had_ known, in a vague sort of way – her fascination with snow had been seared into his memory. Perhaps he hadn't known for certain, per se…but he _had_ hoped.

"Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself," he said, and cast her a faintly mocking smile.

She, like the child she was playing at being, stuck her tongue out at him, scrunching her nose up.

"In all actuality," he said, "it was available for a pittance, and I thought you would like it." It was the color of her eyes exactly, a delicate shade just a touch deeper than the blue of a clear sky.

A smile flirted with the corners of her mouth; she ducked her head and concentrated upon her task, pressing snow up into high walls, forming an archway between them. "I do like it," she said. "Thank you." And then she lifted her face, and her lips were pursed in disapproval. "I _still_ think you shouldn't have bought so many things."

"Don't be difficult," he chided.

An uptick in the wind's severity caught his attention; he turned his head and shaded his eyes against the draft-borne flurries that whipped through the air on the wind that howled through the Rift.

A snowball smacked the back of his head, crumbling beneath the force of the strike, icy flakes clinging in clumps to his hair and neck. The bits of snow melted quickly with the heat of his skin, cold rivulets of water sliding down his neck and into his collar.

Penelo cackled with glee.

He turned and fixed her with an incredulous look, but she only doubled over in response, choking on her laughter. Snow that had packed and hardened beneath his boots crunched as he took a step toward her, the ominous sound breaking over the _whoosh_ of the wind.

Her laughter faded to helpless giggles, broken by desperate gasps for air. She threw up one hand, warding him off. "Now, Balthier –"

Another step closer had her scrambling to her feet, snow castle abandoned. One wall collapsed beneath the pressure of her boot as she trod upon it in her haste to flee.

And still she laughed breathlessly, and it echoed in bright mocking trills along the walls of the Rift, cascading around him, pure and perfect. He was certain that she hadn't laughed like that in a depressingly long time.

He gave her a sporting head start before he gave chase, pursuing her through the twisting valley. Her footfalls were muffled by the snow, but the high-pitched, nervous laughter was all he needed to guide him through the maze of passages.

Rounding a corner, he caught sight of her twenty yards ahead. She was careening towards a bend, but the snow beneath her feet had clumped into ice. Her boots failed to find traction; she skidded across the ice, and for a fraction of a second her arms pinwheeled in a desperate attempt to maintain her balance.

She failed; her boots slipped out from underneath her and she tumbled backwards into a deep snowdrift with a muffled _thump_ , disappearing beneath the mound of snow.

He threw back his head and laughed until sides hurt, until her head popped up and she glared at him. Her face was dusted with fluffy white snow, and she scraped at it with her hand.

"Help me out, would you?" She stuck her hand up, waving it at him.

Still chuckling, he eased down the slick incline, carefully navigating the patches of ice that stretched across the path. She had managed to sit up, but she was otherwise buried in almost three feet of powdery snow, and it clung to her clothes like a coat of frosting.

He reached out to clasp her icy hand in his and caught the glimmer of mischief in her eyes half a second too late – she tightened her grip and pulled, and the quick jerk threw off his own precarious claim to balance. His boots slipped, and he pitched forward, shaking loose of her hand just in time to catch himself and avoid crushing her beneath him.

Snow fluffed up around them as he fell, tiny stinging bits of cold peppering his face and neck, dusting his hair. She dissolved once again into peals of laughter, collapsing back into the snow.

"You little witch," he accused, but he couldn't seem to wipe the grin from his face to give the words the heat they might've had otherwise. He braced his forearms on either side of her head, and shifted so that he could tug on the hood of her coat, dislodging it from where it was crumpled beneath her neck to straighten it out and protect her head against the snow beneath her.

Her amusement ended on a little hum of satisfaction at having gotten one over on him. She did not seem particularly concerned that he had ended up sprawled over her, but the thick wool of her coat likely shielded her from the press of his body on hers. At the moment it was all in fun, but soon her wariness would surface and conquer her good humor and she would push him away again.

He shifted his weight to push himself off of her, but when he extended his arms, she grasped for his shoulders and said in a small voice, "No, don't."

He hesitated briefly, then lowered himself once again, bracing the bulk of his weight on his forearms. Her hands moved up his shoulders, clasping around the nape of his neck, her icy fingers warming to the heat of his skin. A skirl of snow danced in the air between them, a few tiny flakes settling on the collar of her coat.

Her fingernails scraped through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he suppressed a shudder. The silence was a fragile thing, stretched thin and waiting to be broken. But she only chewed on her lower lip, her brows drawing together as if she were conflicted.

And so he asked at last, "What is it that you want, Penelo?"

She shifted a bit, opened her mouth to speak, and promptly closed it again. She huffed as if aggravated by her own indecision, her lips pursing. And he waited, unmoving, even as her fingertips caressed the back of his neck.

She took a deep breath as though she were summoning up all of her courage, and at last she said in a rush, "I want you to kiss me." And her face flushed, and she ducked her head briefly to hide it.

Triumph surged through him; _this_ was what he had been waiting for, this very moment, the first overture that she had made of her own accord. But he tamped down on his delight and considered the effort it had taken for her to make her request – she had had to force it out. So she was something shy of certain, then – and he didn't want to prey upon that uncertainty for his own benefit.

So he took a gamble and said, "No."

Her mouth dropped open with a sharp little gasp of surprise. "What?"

"No," he reiterated, as gently as possible. "If you want a kiss, _you_ can kiss _me_."

She screwed up her mouth in annoyance, her displeasure etched in the furrowing of her brows, her set jaw, the frown tilting the corners of her lips. Her hands shifted, and he thought she would withdraw them and push him away, irked with his challenge – but instead her cold fingers slid smoothly through his hair and drew down his cheeks to cup his jaw. She wriggled beneath him, her boots scraping his legs as she readjusted to draw up one knee, bracing one foot against the ground.

She arched up, and he found himself shifting his weight to one arm, his free hand sliding beneath her to support her back. Her cool lips touched his, just at the corner, soft and delicate, and he savored the light pressure. His arm pressed against her spine, his palm cupped the back of her head; he felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheek, the heat of her breath on his chin as she exhaled.

And he waited, barely breathing, for the next touch of her lips – but it did not come. Instead, she gazed at him with faint amusement, the corner of her mouth hitched up in a vaguely victorious smile. "Not so pleasant with the shoe on the other foot, is it?" she asked, patting his cheek in patronizing condescension.

This time it was his turn to be aghast. "You spiteful child," he said, even as she struggled in vain to stifle her snickering. And yet he was somehow impressed – she wasn't a timid little mouse to be pulled along wherever he led, nor would she merely be content to sulk and stew in her anger. She would fight back, repay slight for slight, defy his expectations simply because she could – because her chief asset was the fact that her mettle was often underestimated, and that gave her an advantage to which few could lay claim.

She was so pleased with herself – but she had made a critical error. She had _asked_ him to kiss her. He might have declined initially, but he was entitled to change his mind. So he slanted his head and kissed her, like she'd asked, like she'd wanted him to do earlier. Her amusement died an abrupt death, her breath caught in the back of her throat as she made a little sound of surprise. Her hands spasmed, her fingernails prickling along his jaw for the space of a second. And then a fine tremor ran through her hands, and they slid along his jaw, around the back of his head, and her nails raked through his hair.

She made a low, sweet sound, angling her head to suit, and her lips parted to the pressure of his, the cold vanquished by the heat of their mingled breaths. She moved restlessly beneath him, shuddering – but not from the surrounding snow. Her shoulders drew up tight and tense, as if she struggled to get closer, but she was trapped by the weight of his body, and so he eased to the side, dragging her with him as he rolled. His knee was caught between her legs, and he drew it up until she gasped, her body arching helplessly against him.

Her damned coat was too thick; he ran his hand down her side and could feel only the barest hint of the curve of her body through the fabric. He hadn't foreseen that particular complication – his fingers swept between them, exploring the front of her jacket, searching for the closures, and finding only smooth fabric. How did the damn thing open? His hand traveled up to the collar, slipping beneath it for clues.

A gurgle of laughter escaped her as she broke away, having sensed the source of his frustration. "It's a wrap closure," she said. "You can't get to it that way."

Defeated, he gave a heavy sigh and dropped his head against the curve of her neck, contenting himself with kissing the delicate skin there. She purred like a drowsy kitten, her fingertips flexing on his shoulders. He had thought that she would've retreated, that she might even have chastised him for his thwarted attempt to divest her of her coat, but she seemed pleased to soak up the affection that he lavished upon her, tilting her head to accommodate him.

But the cold was seeping in through his clothes at last, and her lips were tinged with blue. When her fingers brushed the back of his neck, they were cold as ice. He'd forgotten the gloves – they were still lodged in his pocket. He reached down and shoved his hand in his pocket, grabbing up the gloves and jerking them free.

"Put these on," he said. "Your hands are freezing."

The gloves were his; she struggled to pull them on, and they swallowed her hands, the extra fabric dangling over her fingertips.

The first stars were beginning to glow through the steadily-deepening sky. Night was making a swift approach, and they would have to make for the ship. He managed to disentangle their limbs, pushing himself up and out of the snow, clasping her wrist to avoid yanking the glove right off her hand as he helped her to her feet.

"We ought to be heading back," he said. "We can't risk getting caught in the dark."

The moon burned behind the misty cloud-cover, a pale lamp shining upon the sparkling snow. They trudged together up the hill, mindful, this time, of the ice that shimmered in the moonlight. The _Strahl_ came into view as they rounded a corner, perched at the top of another incline, but Penelo had stopped in her tracks, peering down another passage of the Rift.

He paused, turning to see what she was looking at – and recognized it at once. The thick, raised wedge of stone, the overhanging ledge that kept it dry and free of ice and snow…it was where they had camped five years before on their way through the Paramina Rift.

She stuffed her gloved hands in the pockets of her coat and said, "I don't want to go back to the _Strahl_. I want to camp there."

"You're joking." He stared in open astonishment. "It's freezing. And the _Strahl_ has actual _beds_."

"We did it once before," she said.

"Out of _necessity_ ," he countered. "Do you remember what it was like?" The wind had whipped the hides sheltering them the night through, pushing swirls of snow in through the open spaces beneath to dance across their faces. They had been tired and cold and hungry and filthy, and all night long there had been a constant cacophony comprised of the _clink_ and _scrrratch_ of armor across the stone. It had been cramped and uncomfortable and awkward, and quite possibly the worst night's sleep he'd ever gotten.

"Yes," she said. "That's why I want to camp here again – it's one of my favorite memories. Don't tell me you don't have the supplies; I won't believe it."

He did, of course – there were bedrolls and tarps and all manner of things aboard the _Strahl_ that he rarely had occasion to use but kept close at hand anyway, in the interest of preparedness.

She turned and made for the _Strahl_. "You don't have to accompany me," she said. "I'm sure I'll be fine on my own. I can build a shelter and set up a fire."

Damned if he was going to leave her to her own devices in such frigid temperatures. The stubborn girl would probably freeze to death before admitting defeat.

And he muttered a few choice expletives beneath his breath – if she was bound and determined to camp, then they would bloody well camp. But he wasn't inclined to give up his creature comforts merely for the purpose of humoring her harebrained ideas, and she would simply have to live with it.

* * *

Night had fully descended over the land by the time they exited the _Strahl_ , arms laden with supplies.

"I don't think really we need all of this," Penelo muttered as she clasped her arms around the bundle of bedclothes, squirming beneath the weight of the bag strapped to her back.

" _I_ do," he said. "Believe me – if I had been able to manage a mattress, I would have done. I never sleep on hard stone if it can at all be avoided." As it was, he wasn't sure the bedclothes he'd pilfered from the linen closet would suffice. He ought to have grabbed more – but then, he could always make a second trip if necessary.

At least the light of the moon reflected enough on the surface of the snow to light their path; though he'd brought along logs and a tinderbox, he hadn't been willing to free up an arm in order to carry a torch. The packets of weights in the pockets of his jacket pulled it tight across his shoulders, and they bounced against his hips with every step. How had he let her talk him into this?

She made it to the campsite before him, dumping the bedclothes upon the stone and prying loose the bag from her back, rifling through it to pull out the folded tarps. They were thick and heavy, the outside oiled to waterproof slickness, the inside made of brushed leather to insulate against all weathers. He went to work stringing them up, stacking the weights along the edge of the tarp at the top of the ledge, then weighing the bottom edge against the ground. The wind blowing down the passage rippled the tarp, but it stayed secured, holding out the icy blast of air. It was the work of only a few minutes to enclose almost the entirety of the shelter, except for a small space at the opposite end and sheltered from the wind, where they would build up a fire.

Penelo had busied herself with dragging out their bedrolls, spreading them along the cold stone floor, stretching out the blankets to cover them. It was looking a little sparse to Balthier, who did not relish the thought of bedding down upon so hard a surface.

He'd forgotten the pillows, besides. He tossed down his own bag, into which he'd shoved what he hoped would be enough logs to last them through the night.

"I'll return shortly," he said, "There are a few things I ought to have brought. In the meantime, you should get a fire going." Though the tarps were secure enough that they kept out the wind, the temperature could best be described as frigid – hardly suitable for camping.

The wind whipped at his face as he made the trek back to the _Strahl_ , flinging up stinging shards of ice. He hadn't just forgotten the pillows – he'd forgotten food as well. Of course, the campsite limited their options, so he rummaged around the kitchen for a loaf of bread, some slices of fruit, and cold cuts of meat and cheese, wrapping them all up on a platter.

The pillows he snatched off of his own bed, jamming them beneath his arm, and, upon further consideration, he took up the blanket as well, folding it into a thick square and resting the plate atop it. On the way out, he snagged a corkscrew and a bottle of wine from the kitchen, unwilling to ruin his night yet further with water from a canteen that would taste vaguely of the metal that contained it.

As he descended once more into the Rift, he could see in the distance the smoke of the fire rising into the sky against the backdrop of the moon. On approach, he could hear the fire crackling merrily in the space between the edge of the tarp and the wall of the Rift, see the warm glow lighting the interior of the shelter.

He nudged one edge of a tarp free in order to enter the tent, and the heat of the fire that had been trapped within soothed the worst of the cold that had frosted his face. He let the pillows fall atop the bedrolls, dropping the bottle of wine upon them to cushion its landing, then put down the blankets and plate and moved to adjust the tarp and reposition the weight.

Inside the shelter, it was pleasantly warm already. The fire crackled, shedding a golden glow across the inside of the tarps and the carefully arranged blankets. Their bags were settled near the edge of the tarp, and beside them rested Penelo's boots and a folded bundle of clothing.

She sat in a mound of blankets, knees drawn up, toasting her bare toes in the warmth of the fire. She still had on a shirt, at least – but the trousers had gone by the wayside, and the smooth length of her legs was bared to the low light. At least the shirt was of the longer variety; it bunched up around her hips rather than ending at her midriff. She'd loosed her hair from its ribbon, combing through the strands with her fingers. The snow that had dusted it had melted in the heat of the shelter, and she looked to be drying it out and detangling it as best she could.

He'd been gone perhaps ten minutes and she had already stripped almost down to her underthings. He took a glance back at the lone bottle of wine buried amongst the scattered pillows, regretting that he hadn't brought another…or five.

She had to have noticed that he'd returned, if for no other reason than the rush of wintery air that had preceded him through the tarp. But she hadn't looked back – she was fixated on the crackling fire, on lazily pulling her fingers through her hair, fanning out the shiny blond strands to dry into loose waves.

After a few moments, she extracted her fingers from her hair, stretching out her arm to run her fingers along the ridge of scar tissue encircling her ankle. The collar of the shirt dipped down off of her shoulder, the ivory fabric bunching around her upper arm.

He didn't recall having seen such a shirt amongst those he'd picked up at the clothier's shop. It was wildly impractical, just filmy gauze, so thin and delicate that the firelight shone right through it. So it hadn't been something he'd purchased for her, which meant –

Dear gods. She'd borrowed it from among _Fran's_ things.

He resisted the urge to cover his eyes like some sort of scandalized damsel. Instead he grabbed for the bottle of wine, fishing for the corkscrew he'd jammed in his pocket, and went to work opening the bottle in an effort to distract himself.

"I thought we had discussed the necessity of wearing appropriate clothing," he said as he plucked the cork from the bottle at last.

That prompted a flutter of surprised laughter from her. She said, "What – did you expect me to sleep in a coat?"

Beneath his breath, he muttered, "It certainly couldn't hurt."

She sighed, propped her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. "I didn't have anything else, so I had to borrow something of Fran's. It's entirely appropriate."

"Not," he said, "on _you_." The wine was a rare vintage that he'd nicked from an avid collector. It would have sold for at least a hundred thousand gil. He dropped down to recline on the pile of pillows and tossed back a healthy swallow without even tasting it

She took his comment for censure, scrambling to her feet to plunk her fists on her hips and thrust out her sharp little chin rebelliously. He was somewhat relieved to note that the shirt was actually more of a gown, and it fell to mid-thigh when she was standing. "It is, too!" she snapped. "What's wrong with it, then?"

He passed a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. "To begin with, I can see straight through it."

She glanced down and made a little choked sound in her throat – the light of the fire glowed clean through the thin fabric, starkly silhouetting her body. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and her bottom hit the ground with a muffled _whump_ as the blankets and bedroll cushioned the impact. She clapped her hands over her mouth, and her shoulders began to shake. For a moment he thought she might be crying – but no; tiny smothered strains of laughter slipped through the cracks of her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she managed at last, ruefully. "I didn't know – it was the most conservative thing I could find. I swear I had no _idea_." She tugged a corner of blanket out from beneath her, drawing it up to her chin. One hand emerged from beneath the blanket, reaching toward him and gesturing for the bottle of wine.

He passed it over. "What were you thinking about?" he asked.

"Hm?" She tipped the bottle up for a quick drink and handed it back.

"When I returned, you were staring at the fire, lost in thought. What about?"

"Oh." Her lips pursed, and she chewed the inside of her cheek, considering how to answer. She shifted uncomfortably, forming a pile of blankets around herself like a fortress. "The truth is…I do have money. Sort of."

He canted his head to the side, interested. "Oh?"

"Ashe put in trust for me years ago at a bank in Rabanastre, as a reward." She waved vaguely and rolled her eyes, " _For services rendered unto the Crown_. But I never wanted to take it. It belongs to the people of Dalmasca." Her shoulders rose and fell in a self-conscious shrug. "So it's just been sitting there accruing interest, several million gil that I don't know what to do with and I couldn't possibly spend." Her voice dropped to rough whisper. "And I think that's why he left me there. He wanted me to claim it, and I wouldn't."

Ah – she'd been agonizing once again over that unworthy sack of behemoth dung who had abandoned her to three years of hell. He set the bottle of wine aside and braced his elbow on the floor to prop up his head with his hand. "Had you quarreled about money, then?"

"Just…just about that." She gave a little one-shouldered shrug and brushed her hair away from her face with one hand. "When I broke with Vaan, Raen wanted to go back to Rabanastre to transfer the money to his accounts. He said that I wouldn't need my own, since we were getting married." She laughed, a low sound devoid of mirth. "So we fought. And I thought I'd won; I thought I'd made him understand why I didn't want it. And instead he cut his losses and left me."

"You had a lucky break," he said, "despite the circumstances. Can you imagine how miserable you might've been had you gone through with it?"

She shook her head. "But now I'm afraid to trust my own judgment. I was wrong before, and suffered the consequences. Wouldn't you be afraid?"

"Perhaps. But I certainly wouldn't allow the fear of a misstep to rule my life. We make the best choices we can given the information we have." He had the distinct impression that she was working up to something. She was dissecting his responses in her mind, studying their suitability, almost as if she were interviewing him.

One of her hands slipped out from beneath the blanket to pick at a stray thread. "What if I can't even trust the information I have?" she asked. "Because it might be right and it might be wrong, but…if it's right, I think I'd be devastated." She blew out a breath, stirring the tendrils of hair that had fallen back over her face. "And I think you'd be…disappointed."

Disappointed? Why would she think – _oh_.

He chose his words carefully. "We're not talking about _him_ any longer, are we?"

After a brief moment of hesitation, she shook her head gravely, curling in on herself. She was trying so hard to be brave, to be honest – but she looked terrified.

"Why do you believe I would be disappointed?"

She pulled a face. "Because I'm not good at this sort of thing."

"Luckily for you, _I_ am." He laughed as she snagged a pillow and chucked it at his head in a flare of temper over his blasé retort.

"I'm serious!" she said.

"As am I," he replied. "Darling, don't you think it's up to _me_ to decide whether or not I'm disappointed?"

She covered her face with her hands and wailed pitifully, "But what if you _are_?"

"I assure you," he said, "if I can manage to get you out of that gown, I will be a happy man indeed."

Her shoulders scrunched up; she made a curious sound behind her hands, halfway between amusement and exasperation. And then she set her shoulders, firmed her jaw, and said, "Okay. I want to try."

He choked on a laugh. "Dear gods – you needn't look as though you're headed off to war. I promise you, it'll be a sight more pleasant than dying in battle."

"Not in my experience."

The grim words had a sobering effect on him. "You poor thing – are you _certain_ you want to do this?"

She shifted beneath the blankets, stretching out a bit as if his words had bolstered her confidence. "It's now or never, I think." She shrugged, and continued, "My mother used to say that we build unpleasant things up in our minds until fear prevents us from ever facing them. I don't want to be a coward forever."

"How very flattering," he said, utterly deadpan. "You've quite the romantic streak, haven't you?"

"I'm not looking for romance," she said, casting him a baleful look. "I'm just…" She sighed, shoved her fingers through her hair, and tried again. "I just need to find out if I'm really as broken as I feel." And though she tried to mask it, her voice trembled a bit at the end, hitting a high, plaintive note.

"You're not broken. Bruised, perhaps – but never broken," he said, holding out his hand to her. "And if you'll come over here, it will be my pleasure to prove it to you."


	16. Chapter 16

" _Now_?" she squeaked.

At her shocked expression, Balthier tipped his head back and laughed. And laughed. And kept right on laughing until she made an infuriated sound and chucked another pillow at him. He tucked it behind him, reclined back, and folded his arms behind his head. "I thought you wanted to get it over with," he said.

"I can't when you're _laughing_ at me," she said, her ill humor creeping into her tone. She stretched the blanket tight around her like a protective barrier.

"I'm not laughing _at_ you," he said, "I'm laughing because I don't think I've ever been more insulted in my life – and somehow you've still managed to make it seem bloody _charming_."

She canted her head to one side, her brows drawing together in a frown. "How in the world did I insult you?"

He snickered lightly, amused all over again. "I have a certain _reputation_ ," he said. "Not to stroke my own ego, but I'd venture to say there's many a lady who would be thrilled to find herself in your shoes. And yet, _you_ look as though you'd rather be anywhere else."

She shifted uncomfortably. "It's not you, it's me."

His shoulders shook; he didn't even attempt to stifle his bark of laughter. "Ah, that old line – I've used it often enough myself."

"I'm scared." She clapped her hand over her mouth as if she could pull the words back and shove them back in. After a moment she dropped her hand, heaved a sigh and said, "I'm sorry – I'm such a coward." She made a harsh sound of disgust in her throat, and her hands clenched into fists, squeezing so hard her knuckles went white with the strain.

"I think you're very brave," he said softly. "Given your history, a certain degree of reticence can be expected. It takes a good deal of courage to attempt to surmount it." He stretched out his legs, propping one boot over the other. "What is it that you're afraid of? Do you think I'll hurt you?"

She grimaced, and he knew he'd struck gold. "I don't think you'd _mean_ to," she said. Her hands unclenched, but she linked her fingers together, fidgeting.

"I can personally promise you that it won't hurt," he said. " _And_ that you may cry halt at any time, no matter the reason."

She squinted at him doubtfully. " _He_ always said –"

"I'm not him. I'm not going to turn into him." He kicked off his boots, nudging them aside. "Have I been less than honest with you?"

"No, but –"

"Have I been otherwise untrustworthy?" He sat up, working the togs of his jacket, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside.

" _No_ , but –"

"Then trust me _now_ ," he said. "Just now, just for this moment. You can change your mind two minutes from now if it suits you. But for _now_ , Penelo – simply trust me."

She hesitated, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. But at last she stopped twisting her fingers in her lap and murmured, "Okay."

"Will you come here?" He stripped off his shirt and flung it toward his discarded jacket, then held out his hand to her. "There are many ways to do this, but to the best of my knowledge, none of them involve being fully clothed and five feet apart from one another."

She managed a tentative smile at that, knowing full well that he was attempting to calm her nerves through humor. Even as he urged her to stretch beyond her perceived limitations, he left the choices in her hands. And she _did_ believe him – she believed him when he said she could cry off if she chose, and she believed that he wouldn't hold it against her.

He'd humored her, even when she'd inadvertently insulted him. He hadn't made a crude grab for her, hadn't ridiculed her indecisiveness. He had only sought to put her at ease, to make her comfortable. Or – as comfortable as he could manage.

She took a deep breath and sidled closer, closing the distance between them to a mere foot. A log on the fire cracked, and the sharp sound made her flinch. The right corner of his mouth jerked up in a half-grin.

"Are you going to jump out of your skin if I touch you?" he inquired.

She shook her head, tried to remind herself that just an hour ago he'd kissed her and she'd liked _that_ just fine. But the inherent threat of _more_ hung over her like a shadow and she couldn't quite make herself believe that she would like _that_.

His hands tangled in her hair and cupped the back of her neck, warm and gentle. His brows lifted, surprised. "Good gods – you're shaking like a leaf." He urged her closer, pressed her cheek to his chest.

"I'm _nervous_ ," she mumbled. "I wish…I wish I didn't have so much baggage."

He chuckled, and his fingers massaged the tense muscles at the nape of her neck. "We've all got baggage, darling. But I'll carry yours for you tonight." His lips brushed the top of her head.

His chest was so warm, and she felt so cold even in the ambient heat of the fire. He did nothing aside from holding her; his hands strayed no lower than her shoulders, as if he were merely acclimating her to his touch. And gradually she drew her first full breath and let it out slowly, and her shudders eased. She uncurled her hands and pressed them to his chest so that her cold fingers could soak in his warmth.

"Better?" Even his _voice_ was warm. She didn't know how it was possible, but it slid over her like sunshine, heating her skin. She nodded against his chest. Another log cracked, and this time she didn't flinch, didn't start – but she sighed, and the tension in her shoulders dissolved.

"Perhaps this ought to wait –"

"No!" Her fingers curved, nails digging crescents into his flesh. "No, please – please help me. I don't want to be like this anymore." She wriggled, crawling into his lap with a desperation that surprised even herself. Her hands grabbed at his hair, tugging his head down to press her lips somewhere in the vicinity of his.

He let her have her way for a moment or two, then gently extracted her hands from his hair, holding them in his. "All right," he soothed, "all right – no need to work yourself into such a state." He touched his forehead to hers, sighing. "You can stop," he said. "At any time. You can always stop."

"I know," she said. "I trust you." And it was the truth. For a moment he did nothing except hold her hands in his, rubbing her palms with his thumbs. Then he placed her hands on his shoulders and his own cupped the indention of her waist, and the heat of them burned through the thin fabric of her gown. He turned her gently so that she straddled his lap instead of simply occupying it. Her legs folded beneath her, stretching the hem of the gown tight over her thighs, and she jerked a little at the intimate contact.

"All right?" He murmured it at her ear, and she shivered, gooseflesh prickling along her skin.

She managed a nod. His lips touched the tender skin beneath her ear, meandered along her throat, and hovered over her pulse. The stubble shadowing his jaw abraded her skin, but she didn't find it unpleasant. She realized she had locked her elbows to hold herself at a distance – he had to have noticed it, even if he hadn't said anything.

When she unbent enough to drape her arms over his shoulders, he rewarded her with a slow scrape of his jaw along her throat, and she shivered in response, squirming. Her pulse raced; her arms curled around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. His warm breath caressed her ear, one of his hands moved from her waist to her back, stroking along her spine, exerting just enough pressure to encourage her to ease closer. She'd started trembling again, and she hid her face against his shoulder, frustration clawing at her throat. He was going to think she was terrified, and stop, and then she'd never know for sure.

"I'm sorry," she said in a fierce whisper, "I'm fine, I swear – I just can't stop."

She heard the chuckle that rumbled in his chest, felt the smile that curved his lips as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know," he said, and a thread of satisfaction colored his voice.

"I-it's really got nothing to do with you," she said, annoyed by his amusement.

Again, that rumble in his chest, like the purr of a cat. "Of course it does," he said. He splayed his palm over the small of her back, and with his other hand he swept up her hair, gathered up a handful of it, and gently tugged her head back to expose her throat. Her nails kneaded his shoulders and she swallowed convulsively, apprehensive – and then his teeth scraped across her shoulder, and a liquid heat settled deep in her belly.

"You…you _bit_ me," she accused, startled.

"Ah, but you _liked_ it." Both of his hands were in her hair, now, cupping her head so that he could feather a string of kisses along her cheek, closing in on her mouth at a torturously slow pace. Her eyes slid closed, enjoying the whisper-soft sweep of his lips over her skin.

"How…" She chewed her lower lip, conflicted. "How did you _know_?" She breathed the question as if they were sharing secrets too sordid to be voiced above a whisper. His teeth caught her lower lip, nipping the delicate flesh, and she jerked and gasped in surprise.

"I'm good at this," he said. "I just _know_."

"But _how_?" She drifted closer, disappointed when he pulled away. He'd come so close to an actual kiss and then just… _hadn't_.

A chuckle near her ear; she turned, hoping to coerce him into a kiss and was once again left bereft. Annoyed, her eyes opened, a pout pursing her lips. Something in his expression was off, his features etched with a secret amusement. Her brows drew together, baffled – and then her mouth dropped open in astonished realization.

"You've been teasing me," she said. "You…you…"

"Oh, come, now," he said. "That's half the fun. The truly terrible thing is that you don't already _know_ that."

Infuriated, she balled up her fists to hit him, but he caught them easily and laughed as he leaned in and kissed her. She tensed, and her lips parted as she prepared to launch into a scathing diatribe – a crucial misstep, as he angled his head and stole the incensed gasp straight from her mouth. The tension that had stiffened her spine coiled tighter and tighter until it burst free; her hands unclenched in the loose grip of his, and she wilted, shoulders sinking, listing forward.

Oh – he _was_ good. The fury that had gripped her was slipping away, and it floated further from her reach with every moment, every slow stroke of his tongue. She was vaguely aware that one of his hands cupped her face and the other was making measured progress from her ribcage to her waist. At some point he had released her wrists – she hadn't noticed – and her palms were sliding over his shoulders, playing across the flat plane of his back.

His fingers stroked her hip, stilled, and then resumed their motion with more urgency, coasting along the thin fabric of her gown as if searching for something. She squirmed uneasily, embarrassed that he might discover there was nothing underneath it.

Upon striking that realization, he groaned and murmured, " _You good girl_ ," at her lips with such obvious relish that she pulled back, startled – she had been prepared to cringe with shame, but he kissed the corner of her lips, her cheek, her chin, stroked her hip in subtle praise.

Force of habit compelled her to speak. "I'm sorry –"

"For the love of the gods," he said in a rough murmur, "don't you _dare_ be sorry." And then he was kissing her again, and he didn't need to hold her head because she was holding his, gripping handfuls of his hair in her fists. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her thighs, telegraphing his intentions as he eased upward, slipping beneath the hem of her gown.

She tried to nip her thighs together as his fingers approached their destination, uncomfortably aware of the dampness there – but she was splayed over his lap and couldn't manage anything more than a pitiful attempt at it.

"Oh, don't," she said, mortified, as his fingers stroked her slick flesh. "I'm – I'm…"

He shuddered, his voice deepening to a guttural growl. "Oh, yes," he said, burying his face in the curve of her throat, scraping his teeth lightly over her skin in a way that made her tremble. "You _are_." But in deference to her embarrassment, he said, "Shall I stop?"

She gripped his shoulders as his fingers gently brushed her private flesh. Fire streaked through her veins, and she squeaked in dismay as her hips arched to his fingers of their own volition. But after a moment of hesitation, she at last mumbled, " _No_."

It was a small blessing that he could not see her face, at least, and she bit her lip in a futile attempt to stifle the strange sounds that crept up her throat. She couldn't seem to stop moving; her breath hitched in her chest, her heart pounded, her nails scored his shoulders – and his fingers continued their maddening strokes, and she couldn't hold back the helpless whimper that escaped her.

Her skin was hot and over-sensitized; even the rasp of his cheek against her throat was agony and torment. She writhed, only dimly conscious of the soft words of encouragement he whispered against her throat, until at last her back bowed and the tension that had pulled her muscles tight snapped like a twig. She gasped, clutching at him desperately as her body was wracked with a deep, sweet rush of pleasure. And it didn't end; tiny shivers pulsed through her in waves, until she was dizzy with sensation, until she sagged against his chest, limbs lax and suffused with a strange lassitude.

With no small amount of effort, she managed to tuck her arms between them, curling up against him. She whispered, " _Oh_ ," and there was a wealth of newfound understanding in her voice. She felt his satisfied chuckle; it sluiced over her sensitive skin like water.

He nuzzled her ear, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. "All right?"

She nodded, relishing the feel of his chest beneath her cheek, something solid for her to cling to while her world struggled to reorder itself. But when she sighed and closed her eyes, he nipped at her shoulder to get her attention.

"Don't doze off just yet," he said. "I'm not done with you." His hands gathered fistfuls of the gown, preparing to remove it, but she jerked her hands down with a sound of distress, impeding his progress.

"Is – is that really necessary?" she asked, in high, tremulous voice. "I mean, do I _have_ to take it off?"

He relinquished control of the fabric, choosing his words carefully. "No," he said. "I only want to see you, feel you – is that so wrong?" But she cringed, shrank as though the very thought were abhorrent, and so he asked, "Do you wish to stop?"

She shook her head, chewing on her lower lip as if to hold back words she desperately wished she did not have to say. "I'm not…pretty," she said finally. "I have scars and…and I'm _small_ , and…"

He clapped a hand over her mouth before she could go any further. "I'm going to kill him," he said in a voice that seethed with raw fury. "I swear it to the gods. I'm going to kill him." She gaped at him as he pulled away his hand, caught one of hers in his and dragged it to his chest. He pressed her fingers over his sternum, and beneath her fingers she felt a subtle ridge of flesh – scar tissue. "Dagger," he said. "Eight years ago." He moved her hand lower, to the left, just beneath his ribcage, over a scattering of round impressions. "Scattershot. Ten years ago." Again he shifted her hand, this time around his back, to a brutal network of crisscrossed lines. "Caning. Fifteen years ago, at school. I almost didn't make it through that one."

She wriggled her fingers to loosen his grasp, brushing her fingers lightly over the old wounds as if they might pain him still. Her touch was apologetic, her brows drawn together in sympathy.

"You're not the only one with scars," he said. "Do you mind mine?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "They're just scars."

"As are yours." He framed her face with his hands, touched his forehead to hers. "He lied to you," he said. "You _must_ understand that – he _lied_ to you." He brushed a kiss across her cheek, and she leaned into the caress, drawing comfort from it.

"Would you…would you close your eyes?" she ventured hesitantly, tangling her fingers together in her lap.

"If you return the favor." His mouth was warm at her ear as he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm half-convinced you'll cut and run yet – I don't wish to feed your fears any further."

"All right." She scrutinized his face, her chin set with firm resolve. "No peeking."

The moment he closed his eyes, she scrambled off his lap. There was a frantic rustling of clothing and blankets as she shed the gown and dived beneath the shelter of the bedclothes. In a tinny, high-pitched voice, she at last called, out, "I'm, er…decent."

She had tucked herself beneath the covers, drawing them up to her chin like a child, her fingers clenched tightly around a fistful of them. When his hands went to his belt buckle, she made a little startled squeak and squeezed her eyes shut, and the covers dropped to her shoulders as she pressed her fingers over her eyes.

He smothered a laugh as he peeled away his trousers, tossing them aside, and turning toward the mound of blankets underneath which she had buried herself. The little wretch – _she was peeking through her fingers!_

"You peeked," he accused, drawing up his knee to hinder her view. "And I had thought for certain your honor was unimpeachable." He snagged a corner of the blanket to toss it over his hips and turned, crawling across the bedroll toward her, sliding his arm beneath her neck, curving his arm around her to stroke the small of her back.

She swallowed audibly. "I don't know if this is going to work." But her head settled comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, and her words were cautious, as if seeking reassurance. "He wasn't…er, quite like _that_."

She couldn't see his rueful grin, and he counted that as a small blessing. "I was afraid of this – you shouldn't have peeked," he said. "But I promise you that I can keep my word. It's not going to hurt." There was a swath of covers sandwiched between them; he lifted them free, sliding closer, and she didn't make so much as a whisper of protest.

"How can you possibly know that?" She shifted, drawing her arms up to settle her palms against his chest. Her face was a study in indecision – half of her wanted to call off, but the other half wanted to believe him.

"Because I'm good at a great many things, but this…this is where I excel." He swept her hair aside and kissed her forehead. "Shall I prove it?"

She pressed her lips together, flattening them into a firm line. "You can still stop?"

"Always. I don't lack for self-control." Though it was just the tiniest bit threatened by the smooth slide of her leg against his.

"Okay." Her breath sighed out against his throat, and he felt the minute relaxing of the bunched muscles beneath his hand. "I think I can do this," she said. Her hands slid up his chest to his shoulders. "Should I…is there something I should do?"

"Not this time, I think," he said. "But you should probably…" With gentle pressure, he rolled her to her back, braced himself on his forearms over her, careful to keep from overwhelming her with the weight of his body. "Ahh, there," he said. "That's better."

She managed a weak approximation of a laugh. "Lie back and think of Dalmasca?"

"Darling, give me two minutes, and I'll challenge you to think of anything at all."

He bent to kiss her, and she was vaguely alarmed by the rush of heat that surged through her veins. Somehow he had effortlessly ferreted out her weaknesses, discovered what pleased her – and then used it all against her, sapping away her misgivings. As if, in just a few stolen moments, he had _trained_ her to respond to him. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders, and she did no more than take a swift breath when he eased his legs between hers, settling over her. There was the press of his intimate flesh against hers, but it wasn't as threatening as she had imagined it would be – at least, not with the distraction he presented, nipping her lower lip and then sliding his tongue deep to stroke hers.

He had shifted his weight slightly, bracing his weight on one arm. His free hand traced swirling patterns on her stomach, inching upward by slow degrees, until his fingers teased her breast, and his thumb rubbed across her nipple. Her breath shuddered out and her hips jerked of their own accord – and she felt him smile against her lips.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "Do _that_."

He didn't have to _ask_ , because she couldn't control it – she squirmed helplessly, and he took shameless advantage of it, angling his hips so that each restless movement provoked an ever-increasing frenzy of sensation. It rose to a fever pitch, worse – and so much better – than before, and she could only twine her arms around his neck and cling and gasp.

He was right; she couldn't hold on to a single thought for long. All thinking was redirected into feeling, except for the frustrating knowledge that whatever he was doing to her was almost – but not quite – enough. She drew up her knee, hoping it would afford her some measure of relief.

And he whispered in her ear, in a voice filled with primal satisfaction, "Do you want to stop?"

Oh, he was an utter ass to taunt her with it – but she heard herself cry out, " _No_ ," and felt her nails carve crescents into the flesh of his shoulders.

He soothed her with a kiss and carefully extracted her nails from his flesh, pried her arms from around him to ease away. At the direction of his hands she locked her legs around his hips, and then he was back, braced on one forearm, whispering encouragement into her ear as he pressed forward. He entered her on a smooth, easy glide, and there was no pain, only an incredible fullness. Her inner muscles clenched around him, and he kept pushing on, and on. Her hands clutched fistfuls of blankets; she threw back her head and cried out, shattered – and she spasmed in lush, tingling contractions.

" _Gods_ ," he gasped, and she felt the shudder that wracked him. He moved in deep nudges, and each one brought a new rush of dizzying pleasure, until she could only arch her back and whimper, overcome. And when he at last came to rest, he buried his face in her throat and his arms encircled her, squeezing her so tightly she could hardly draw breath.

His voice was muffled against her skin, but she heard him rasp in an agonized tone, "I assure you, I am the furthest thing from disappointed."

* * *

She had fallen asleep with her head tucked securely beneath his chin, her soft, even breaths feathering against his shoulder. The fire was in its death throes, and soon he would have to rise and affix the last tarp to trap the remaining warmth within their shelter. He was fairly certain it would hold until morning; the thick leather was well-suited to the task – but even if it did not, there was a multitude of blankets, and he was certainly not averse to sharing body heat.

She was so soft; he trailed his fingers along the length of her leg, which was draped comfortably over his hip. The dying light of the fire made her milk-white skin glow as if she were lit from within. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything quite like it in his life. There were perhaps a thousand other women who had shoulders as smooth and perfect as hers, but he was sure that none of them could claim the same subtle beauty of light and shadow playing over them, like an oil painting brought to life. He'd never seen such long lashes, thick and inky, nor a mouth so sweet and carnal. She'd said she wasn't pretty, and it was true – _pretty_ was far too tame a word. She surpassed mere insipid prettiness and laid claim to beauty instead; the bone-deep sort that defied conventional explanation.

He would never forget her expression – bewildered amazement – nor the sheen of tears in her eyes when he had gathered her close afterward, arranging her trembling limbs with gentle hands, holding her secure in the circle of his arms. And she had needed that, he thought; she had needed the connection, the comfort, the stability that he could provide.

For a long time neither of them had spoken, the silent reverence too fragile to bear. Instead she had simply rested her head upon his chest and let him pet her like a kitten as she drowsed. Whatever embarrassment she had suffered had fled, or at least had not yet returned, for she had only made sweet sounds of contentment, never once flinching from his hands.

When at last she had bestirred herself to move, it was only far enough to reach for the plate of food he'd abandoned earlier, and they'd shared bits of fruit and cheese between them, and polished off the last of the wine – and it had taken only a moment to coax her back down beside him when they had finished.

She stirred in her sleep, mumbling something irritable – likely because he'd stopped caressing her. But she quieted when he resumed the soft strokes of his fingers and sighed contentedly when his arm tightened around her, holding her to his chest.

And he realized quite suddenly that he was going to have to find a way to convince her to stay…because he was never going to be able to let her go.


	17. Chapter 17

Balthier's smug expression was so grating that Penelo frequently found her fists curling as she imagined hauling back and smacking it right off his face. Masculine satisfaction oozed from his very pores; he strutted around looking so godsdamned _proud_ that it was infuriating. And, in the rare moments when he _wasn't_ strutting, every so often she would catch him silently observing her. Whenever he thought she wasn't paying attention, he would take the opportunity to study her as if he were trying to work out a particularly difficult problem in his head. It was…disconcerting.

By tacit agreement, there had been no mention of the night at the Paramina Rift. The morning after had been awkward enough – for her, at least. He had been in a jovial mood, having risen some time before her and squared away the majority of their supplies. By contrast, she had risen in a foul mood sometime later, jarred into alertness by the merry tune he whistled as he strode away from the campsite to return their things to the _Strahl_. He had left her only a blanket and pillow, the tarps, and her clothes folded in neat pile and stacked beside her pillow.

He hadn't touched her. Not once. Not the tiniest brush in passing, nor even a gentle nudge to redirect her if he wished her to turn. It was both confusing and distressing, and she didn't know what she was supposed to think of it. But it was probably better that he hadn't, because his very nearness disturbed her in ways with which she had been ill-equipped to cope.

He had seemed to instinctively understand that she had no desire to discuss what had passed between them, which would have suited her just perfectly had he managed _not_ to swagger about like he'd pulled off some epic coup.

She was well aware that he was responsible only for a small fraction of her anger. She'd managed to sift through the bulk of her confused emotions, portioning them out where they were due: outrage at Raen for his deceit, for the years she'd spent wallowing in her own insecurities, for her shattered heart and battered self-esteem. Relief for herself, that she wasn't the frigid, wrecked, travesty of a person that she had thought.

Only a sliver of irritation remained for Balthier, who had had to go and prove himself right. _Again_. And that was worrisome – because it meant that there really was nothing wrong with her. It had been so much easier, so much _safer_ , to assume the worst and react accordingly, eschewing anything approaching intimacy.

She didn't know how _not_ to be broken.

On the one hand, it was a relief to know that she was not, and on the other, it was a strange new situation through which she had no idea how to navigate. Her version of normal had been a lie, one that she had lived for too many years to feel capable of moving past it. And the only brush that she had had with love had been disastrous – she didn't know what a healthy relationship ought to be like anymore, didn't know if she would ever be comfortable enough in her own skin, in her own emotions, to risk it.

 _That_ was the problem: she still couldn't trust herself. She had made so many mistakes before. She had never had the clarity to reason out the path ahead, had been taken for a fool too often for her inability to discern the nebulous motivations of others.

She might as well be perched at the razor edge of a precipice, where any move could spell disaster. But her own doubts were a heavy fog, blinding her eyes – and so she was stuck, unable to find her own direction. Trapped in the certainty that any move she made would be her undoing.

* * *

The _Strahl_ was making its descent into Balfonheim Port's Aerodrome, and Penelo flexed her shoulders to relieve the tension that had gathered at the back of her neck. The communications system had been buzzing off the hook for three straight days, and she was reasonably certain that it would soon drive her completely mad.

"Why don't you ever answer it?" she asked irritably, resisting the urge to stick her fingers in her ears like a child just to blot out the racket.

Balthier slanted her a speaking glance, arching a brow as if to say, _Really_? But he sighed, leaned forward, and punched a button to connect the call.

"Yes?" he asked.

Vaan's voice roared over the speakers, " _You bastard!_ "

 _Click_. Balthier dropped the call, folded his arms behind his head, and propped his boots up on the dash. " _That_ would be why."

Immediately, the system started buzzing again, and the sound pulsed through Penelo's head, setting off a minor headache. She rubbed at her temples, but failed to stifle the growl of fury that rose in her throat.

"Can't you turn that off, then?" she asked.

"Of course. However, it serves a purpose – Vaan is single-minded. He'll call until he's found us. It's when the calls _stop_ that we ought to worry." As the Aerodrome came into view on the horizon, he shifted the _Strahl's_ controls to manual, straightening to take hold of the yoke and guide her down. "We'd do well to keep on the move as much as possible. The _Galbana_ isn't as fast as the _Strahl_ , but she can still cover a lot of ground."

Penelo shifted in her seat, guilt settling upon her. "I've caused a lot of trouble for you."

"Not especially," he said, in a vague sort of voice, as if he were only half-listening.

"Surely you've got better things to be doing." At once a stray thought gathered in her mind, coalescing into a roar that drowned out even the incessant buzzing of the communications system. "Oh, gods – I pulled you and Fran away from something, didn't I? You had to pass up a job to rescue me."

"Of course not." But his brows drew together, as if she'd prodded too close to a subject he did not wish to discuss in depth.

She swallowed a bitter laugh. "I'm grateful, I really am. And I'm so sorry to have upset your plans –"

"Penelo." He said it firmly, talking right over her. "We were doing _nothing_. Absolutely nothing, not for almost a month. Fran was growing rather cross with me." He sounded somewhat vexed, as if he'd confessed to a mortal sin, but the words rang true.

Somewhat mollified, she sank back in her chair. "I can't imagine you doing nothing," she said. She truly couldn't picture it at all – though he was given to playing the apathetic, indolent gentleman pirate, she had rarely encountered anyone who matched him for determination. "When you say 'nothing'…"

"I mean _nothing_." He tightened his grip on the yoke. "I docked the _Strahl_ in Archades, and there we stayed."

"But there must have been jobs? Even in Archades?"

"Of course. It's a town filled with noblemen and wealthy merchants. Shipments arrived and departed every day, any one of which would've been worth our inspection." The _Strahl_ dipped below the scattered cloud-cover, threading through stray beams of sunlight that struggled toward the earth.

"So what kept you from it?" She didn't know why she had to push at it, only that she had the suspicion that he was intentionally holding something back – and she had been lied to enough.

"Lack of interest. And then, Fran –" But his voice died abruptly, a sudden, unnatural dip into silence.

She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was annoyed, but she couldn't help it. She asked, "Fran what?"

He hesitated for a few seconds too long, and she knew that he was sorting through his thoughts, twisting the truth into something _less than_. "Fran insisted we take a job," he said at last. "And I chose _you_."

* * *

Penelo mulled that over in her head as she browsed the wares for sale at the waterfront market. Balthier had taken himself off to stock up on supplies, leaving her to her own devices for a while, and she enjoyed the leisurely walk and the sleepy pace of the city dwellers. The salty tang of the sea air was soothing, and she was secretly thrilled with how little Balfonheim had changed in the last three years. Rather than experiencing the confusing disorientation that she might've when confronted with surroundings both familiar and not, she felt reassured and comfortable.

It was a nice change of pace, because lately she had felt perpetually off-balance and out of step. The rest of the world had marched on, and only she lagged behind, struggling to stay afloat in the relentless tides of change.

Balthier was decidedly _not_ helping. She didn't know what he was supposed to make of his cryptic remark – what in the world was it supposed to have meant? He had cooled his heels in Archades to the point that Fran had tired of it, and then, instead of actually engaging in his chosen profession, he had chosen to track her down? _Why_?

It made no logical sense. How had he even known she was missing to begin with? He had told her that he, Vaan, and Fran had all been searching for her, and that was clearly true – but if he'd come to the decision to go search for her whilst he and Fran had been holed up in Archades, it had been of his own accord, and not at Vaan's behest. So how had he even _known_ to look for her?

They hadn't spoken in person in years – nor had they corresponded at all aside from the letter he'd left in place of the _Strahl_ when he'd stolen it back. And even during their previous travels, she had always thought he was rather put out by her company. Well, hers _and_ Vaan's. He had made no particular secret of the fact that he had thought the both of them too young and flighty for such a mission, and if he had not quite been overtly hostile, he _had_ been dismissive and patronizing.

She had been completely honest when she had told him that he was the very last person she would have expected to come to her rescue. And yet…he had, and more. He had kept her safe, calmed her in moments of panic, humored her request to keep Vaan out of her hair. He had done far more for her than could ever have been expected of him…for no discernible reason.

He was _confusing_. And every time she felt she was getting close to understanding him or his motives, he shifted somehow and she was left reeling once again. She could almost imagine he was doing it on purpose, deliberately letting her misunderstand him for some reason.

What she couldn'tascertain was _why_.

A loud burst of laughter jerked her from her thoughts. A few feet away, a group of men – most of them sky pirates, if their garb was any indication – spilled out onto the street from a nearby tavern. Balfonheim was a haven to all sorts, but especially to pirates, so it wasn't a particularly unusual sight to see. But one of them at the rear of the group brought her up short, and she stopped in her tracks, surprised to see a familiar face in Balfonheim. Tomaj – what was he doing here?

The street was narrow, bordered by a low seawall, and the group had to pass by her to continue on toward the Aerodrome, but as they did, Tomaj looked up and caught sight of her, his face shifting through a number of expressions in a matter of moments. At last he settled on delight; he let the crowd before him move on ahead and called out that he'd catch up with them later.

"Penelo," he said, "What's it been, now? A couple of years, at least, huh?"

"Something like that," she said noncommittally, tucking one ankle behind the other, rubbing the cuffs of her boots together. "What are you doing in Balfonheim? I thought nothing could pull you away from the Sandsea."

"Business trip," he said, in a somewhat sheepish tone, scratching at the back of his neck. His dark eyes looked her up and down in silent assessment. "You got some time?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the tavern. "I'll buy you a drink and we can catch up."

Penelo looked to the sky, judging the position of the sun peeking through the clouds. Balthier was due back soon, but the tavern had wide glass windows stretching along its storefront – she'd see him when he returned.

"Sure," she said. "That sounds…nice."

Tomaj held the door for her, and she took up a seat in front of the window to keep watch over the street. It was strange to see Tomaj so solicitous; in the past he had always suffered her presence and Vaan's only at Migelo's request. They had performed various odd-jobs that kept Tomaj's tavern running smoothly – fetching supplies, carrying notes, and the like – but Tomaj liked money, and they could rarely afford to pay for the privilege of patronizing his establishment.

Tomaj was two years her senior, and as long as she could remember he had always been running the Sandsea – first as a boy alongside his father, and then as a young man when his father's passing had left it in his care. Finding him in Balfonheim was baffling; she didn't think she had ever seen him outside the _Sandsea_ , much less out of the city.

"You look…different," he said at last, as he flagged down a waiter, who promptly brought them a couple of mugs of ale.

"Time does tend to do that to a person," she said absently, positioning her chair for the best possible vantage point of the street outside. "What are you doing in Balfonheim?"

"Oh," he said, with an abashed laugh. "Well, the queen's cracked down on piracy lately, and my suppliers won't risk bringing the goods straight into the Rabanastre anymore. So I've got to pick up them myself, now." He heaved a sigh. "I can't really spare the time, but it is what it is."

Penelo smothered a snicker; he really was just the same as always, concerned with little more than the management of his tavern. "It'll do you good to get out of the city every now and then," she said. "I can't imagine spending all my life in one place."

"I can't help it; I've got a business to run," he returned. "And it's getting harder every day. Can you believe this – those pirates tried to pawn off some shoddy maps on me. Said there's been _developments_ in Rozarria, and the cartographers were printing up new ones as fast as they could."

She choked on her ale and covered her mouth. "Did they?"

"Yeah." He scoffed. "I bought one of 'em just for kicks. Thought Migelo would get a good laugh out of it. Take a look at this." He pulled a map out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and laid it out on the bar. Penelo leaned her, her eyes going unerringly to the northeast corner of the map, where the city of Galina lay on its inlet, and then across to the ominously-rendered jungle. It was segmented on the map, cleaved in two by the thick chasm that slashed through it all the way into the plains to the south – and running alongside it were the words _Queen Anora's Scar_ emblazoned in proud gold ink.

"Oh," she murmured to herself. "That's wonderful."

"What do they take me for?" Tomaj groused. "The world doesn't just _change_."

"Tomaj, you _really_ need to get out more," she said. "And Migelo'll kill you if you don't take the maps back to him. You know he tries to keep his stock current."

He slanted her a dubious glance. "You're not saying you think they're _accurate_."

"I am, and they are." She eased back in her seat. "As it happens, I've recently come from Rozarria. I've _been_ there," she said, drawing her finger down the jagged line of the chasm. _Queen Anora's Scar_. It was a fitting name, she thought. "In fact, I was there when it happened. It might have been a little bit my fault."

Tomaj's brows rose in surprise. "You lead an interesting life, don't you?"

"That _might_ not be exactly the word I would have chosen," she said. "But, yeah, I guess so. Not bad for an orphan from Lowtown, huh?"

He laughed. "Not bad for anyone, really. Is Vaan around?" His hand settled on the back of her chair, and he craned his neck around as if searching for Vaan's face amidst the crowd.

She shook her head. "We parted ways a couple of years back. He's still got the _Galbana_ , though. I imagine he stops by Rabanastre from time to time?"

"So I've heard, but if he does, he hasn't stopped by the Sandsea." His hand moved from the back of her chair to her shoulder. "You've _really_ changed," he said. "I almost didn't recognize you. I mean, I _did_ , but…it's strange, you know? I didn't expect to see you like _this_."

"Like what?" She canted her head to the side, perplexed.

He coughed into his fist, gestured vaguely to her. "Like… _this_." He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling the dark strands into a disordered fluff. "I guess I always thought of you as Vaan's tag-along – you two were as thick as thieves. You were still just a kid the last time I saw you, and I think I just…didn't expect you to grow up." His mouth flattened into a flat line as examined her quizzical face, frustrated. "What I'm getting at is, maybe you could stop by Rabanastre one of these days and pay me a visit."

His palm cupped her shoulder as if he could instill the words into her through it, and she fell silent and still, her mind swirling with the oddest suspicion that he was attempting, in an awkward, roundabout way, to _flirt_ with her. He wanted her to pay _him_ a visit – and not just to patronize the Sandsea?

A week ago, she would have rejected him out of hand, would have found the very prospect distasteful in the extreme.

But now…well, she still wasn't looking for _that_ sort of relationship, but – Tomaj was handsome, if in a bland sort of way. Symmetrical features, shaggy hair, brown eyes that tilted just a bit at the corners, giving them a feline sort of slant. Half the girls in Lowtown had held a crush on him at some point or another. But he was a class above theirs, and thus firmly out of reach…except that now here he was, expressing interest in _her_. Penelo. Of _all_ people.

She wasn't interested in a relationship, carnal or otherwise. But she _did_ wonder if she was truly free of the chains of her past, if Balthier had succeeded in vanquishing her coldness. If she were capable, outside of that one, isolated incident, of feeling passion.

She took a gulp of her ale to bolster her courage, and then asked, "Tomaj, would you…would you kiss me?"

" _What_?" he asked, his face blanking in surprise. "I mean – yeah." He twisted in his seat, his movements awkward but swift, as if he thought hesitation on his part might cause her to retract the offer.

She waited, poised at the edge of her seat. She didn't know what she was hoping for, precisely, but figured she would know it when it happened. His face blurred before her eyes as he leaned in, and she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

His lips were warm and softer than she would've expected. It was…pleasant. But it might as well have been a handshake for all the feeling in it. It didn't sear her lips, didn't make her heart pound or her hands tremble. She wasn't breathless or hot or shivery. She'd had more visceral reactions from eating a halfway decent meal.

 _Disappointing_.

She knew she was frowning and made an effort to relax and try again; she reached out to grab the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer. "No," she said, "I mean, _really_ kiss me." Maybe he'd done it wrong, or maybe she'd just been overthinking –

"I think not."

Balthier's voice was cutting, dripping with annoyance, and it slammed into her ears with the intensity of a gunshot. Penelo felt a prick of what might've been guilt, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar – she'd been distracted, had failed to watch the window, and Balthier must've seen them from the street. Tomaj's lapels slipped through her fingers like water as he was yanked off his chair and tossed aside. She gaped in shock, in mute outrage, as Balthier shoved a sack of groceries into her arms.

Tomaj recovered from his impromptu flight, righting himself and rounding on Balthier furiously. "Hey, you can't just –"

Balthier turned to face him, and though Penelo could not see his face, whatever Tomaj saw in it made him lapse into silence. In fact, the whole _tavern_ had lapsed into silence, patrons staring in rapt interest at the scene unfolding before them. Penelo flushed under the scrutiny, embarrassed.

Tomaj held up his hands, clearing his throat. "Hey, sorry – I didn't know she was with you."

"I'm not," she said automatically, annoyed. "I mean, I'm with him, but I'm not _with_ him."

"She's _with_ me," Balthier said curtly. "And we're leaving. _Now_." He made an impatient gesture, indicating that she should rise.

They were going to have words about this, she thought darkly. But for the moment he was her ride, and she'd glimpsed perishables in the bag that would require refrigeration – and that meant that a trip back to the _Strahl_ would be necessary.

She heaved an exasperated sigh and rose to her feet. "Sorry, Tomaj – will you be in Balfonheim long? I could –"

"No, you could _not_." Balthier snagged her elbow and pulled her inexorably toward the exit.

Her skin sizzled beneath the light pressure of his fingers, and she was… _irritated_ by it. Tomaj hadn't provoked even the slightest flutter of interest. Why did _Balthier_ so effortlessly evoke it? He wasn't even trying; it made no logical sense.

As he directed her out onto the street and toward the Aerodrome, she muttered beneath her breath, "You have _terrible_ timing."

"On the contrary," he said in a clipped tone, "my timing was impeccable."

She risked a glance at him and experienced a sliver of surprise – the tension in his shoulders, the stony set of his jaw, the muscle that ticked in his cheek…he wasn't merely _annoyed_ , he was _livid_. Though he had masked it fairly well, given the circumstances, the tightly-leashed fury was written in the tense lines of his face, just waiting to spring free.

This was _not_ something she had signed on for, and she most _definitely_ did not want to be around when it broke through.

Her feet brought her to a swift halt, her arms tightening around the bag she carried. She snapped, "You don't have any right to be angry with me!"

"I _know_ that," he said. "And do you know – I think that's what angers me the most." His hand touched the small of her back, urging her onward; the contact seared her flesh like a flame, and she started. "For the gods' sake," he bit off, misreading her jerky movement as fear. "I've never laid a hand on a woman in anger in my life, and I'm not about to start with _you_."

She believed him. Despite the fact that she could feel the anger in him, that it practically shimmered off of him in waves, his touch had been as gentle as always. Even if one hand was fisted at his side, so tightly the knuckles were white with the strain of it, the hand at her back did little more than linger there with careful pressure. He might be angry, but he had no intention of taking it out on her.

She cast him a puzzled glance, caught between irritation and confusion, and said, "I don't understand you."

He managed a rough facsimile of a laugh and said in an ominous tone, "Oh, but you _will_."


	18. Chapter 18

Though it was only early afternoon, the Aerodrome was packed with people, and it took more than ten minutes to proceed through the line. More than ten minutes of standing silently beside Balthier, who would not so much as glance at her – instead he faced forward, looking for all the world as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

She fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting the bag from one arm to the other. A knot of anxiety had formed in her stomach like a ball of lead. Her palms were sweaty, and she gnawed at the inside of her cheek and rolled her shoulders to relieve the tightness that gathered in the muscles there.

She knew how to deal with loud, aggressive anger. She'd done it often enough in the past three years, and she was adept at knocking swaggering louts to the floor if they had dared turn it on her. She knew how to block and dodge attacks, and she had grown more than proficient in the use of improvised weaponry.

 _This_ sort of anger was a new beast entirely – it was cold and seething, and it frightened her right out of her boots. She had no defenses against it, didn't quite understand what had provoked it, and had no idea how she was meant to react to it.

She had had quite enough confrontation and strife in her life already; was it too much to ask for just a _little_ peace?

And there was a tiny voice just at the back of her mind that whispered how _easy_ it would be to run – she could get lost in Balfonheim, perhaps even beg a lift from Tomaj back to Rabanastre. Just in the interest of self-preservation.

But that would make her a coward. And she had so badly wanted Balthier to be better, to be _different_. Character was rarely established in times of peace – it had to be challenged to show itself. And if she wanted to see who he truly was, she might never get a better opportunity.

She could always run. But if she did so now, without giving him the benefit of the doubt, she could never come back. And it would make her a lesser person than she wanted to be, a lesser person than she wanted to believe she could become. Perhaps she owed him that much; the chance to prove himself a better man than those she'd known.

She risked a peek at his face, and her heart sank – even the time they'd wasted waiting in line hadn't dulled the sharp edge of his anger. And she didn't think she could bear it if he _did_ turn it on her.

* * *

The moment the _Strahl's_ dock retracted, Penelo was overset by a flutter of panic. Nervous energy tingled down her spine, and she had to fight not to cringe when he approached, prepared to shy away from him as if he might lash out at her. But he merely slipped past her, heading to the deck to silence the incessant buzzing of the communications system – Vaan must be blowing up the line again.

She had expected him to let slip his less than pleasant temper when he returned; instead he lifted the bag from her arms and retreated to the kitchen in perfect silence. There was no tell-tale slamming of cabinets, no other outward signs of simmering rage, just the ordinary sounds of things being put in their proper places. With no small amount of trepidation she headed toward the kitchen, poking her head around the corner.

"Are you…still angry?" she ventured finally, clasping her hands behind her back.

"Furious," he confirmed. But his tone was light, and she didn't know whether to believe his words or his voice.

Perhaps this was her chance to leave him to his own devices for a while, at least until he'd had some time to calm down. "I'll just be in my room, then," she said, prepared to dash back down the hallway.

"No." This time his voice was firm, decisive. "Sit." He gestured to the chairs at the bar.

She stopped abruptly, torn – she could retreat anyway, of course, but the bedroom door had no lock, and he could always simply drag her back out. If he were so inclined. Which, by the look of his face, he was.

She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, "If you're going to shout at me, I wish you'd just do it already."

"I'm not going to shout at you," he said. Again he gestured to the chair and said, "Sit."

She blinked. "You're not?" But his face…he certainly looked like he wanted to.

"What purpose would it serve?" he asked mildly. And then, "Penelo. _Sit_."

She sat, squirming in her seat like a child preparing to be chastised. "What are you going to do, then?" she asked.

" _We_ are going to talk."

"I think I'd rather you shouted at me," she muttered, ducking her head.

He rummaged through the cabinets in search of glasses, retrieving two of them. He poured himself a glass of wine and her a glass of water, and she frowned as he passed it over the bar to her.

And she felt exceptionally sulky when she asked, "Why don't _I_ get wine, too?"

"Because you've already had at least one ale that I know of, and I want you clearheaded." He rounded the bar and took a seat on the chair beside hers.

The silence stretched out, fraught with tension – mostly hers. She was afraid to look at him, afraid that she would still see that burning anger glowing in his eyes. He masked it well enough, kept it under a tight rein, but every man had a breaking point. She really, _really_ didn't want to discover his.

"I think I have already demonstrated remarkable restraint," he said. "So you needn't cringe away as if I might strike you." His voice was silky soft and even, at complete odds with the hand that gripped his glass so hard she was afraid it might shatter in his palm.

"I don't know why you're so angry," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"No, you haven't," he admitted. His tight grip on his glass loosened; he made a sound that might've been a sigh.

"Then why _are_ you angry?" But she wasn't certain she wanted the answer to that just yet, and so she quickly followed it up with, "If anything, _I_ should be angry with _you_!"

He made a half-amused sound in his throat. "How do you figure that?"

"You lied to me," she muttered. The glass of water was cool; she wrapped her hands around it to soak up the chill. Her temperature seemed to have ratcheted up ten degrees with embarrassment. "You said I wasn't broken, but –" _Not_ something she wanted to admit to him. She averted her face, lifted her glass and drained half of it in one go.

"Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully, as if a vague suspicion had formed in his mind. "Perhaps you'd better tell me just what it was that I walked in on."

"That's none of your business!" she gasped, and her hand trembled when she set down her glass. It clattered against the countertop, and the harsh sound scraped across her raw nerves.

"I beg to differ," he said. "And, if you're going to call me a liar, I think I've got a right to know why."

A frustrated growl rumbled in her throat, and she scowled. "Fine! You want to know? I _thought_ I could be normal again – I believed you when you said there was nothing wrong with me!"

"There _is_ nothing wrong with you. There never has been." His voice was firm, resolute.

"Yes, there is," she snapped. "I _asked_ Tomaj to kiss me, and I didn't feel anything!"

Balthier was torn between relief and fury; relief that she'd felt nothing and fury that she'd _instigated_ that little tavern scene. "You _asked_ him to kiss you?" he asked.

"How else was I supposed to know?" she muttered irritably. "And it didn't work – I'm _not_ normal."

"Yes," he said, "you _are_." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. She tensed as if the touch had been an electric current, her gaze jerking to his. His fingers played across the delicate skin of her inner wrist. "You see? Your pulse races when I touch you."

Her lips parted on a shocked exhale, but her breaths had shallowed as if she'd been running. Her throat worked desperately, as if trying to swallow past a lump. "Tomaj is handsome," she said defensively. "I should have felt _something_." She didn't try to extricate her wrist from his grasp; she merely stared at his hand on her wrist as if it represented a problem she had no solution for. "I don't understand why you're so angry about it."

"Penelo," he said patiently. "You were kissing another man. Why do you _think_ I am angry?"

For a moment she stared in mute incomprehension, baffled. His fingers lazily stroked her wrist, the touch almost…proprietary. Her mouth dropped open, and she said, "No. You weren't…you weren't…" But she couldn't form the word, couldn't quite believe it.

He had lost patience with her prevarication. His voice dropped to a rough growl as he said, "You said that I didn't want you five years ago." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her wrist. "I assure you that isn't true."

She jerked, shocked. Her chest rose and fell in harsh breaths; a tide of color swept over her, burning hotly in her cheeks. "But you never said anything."

"What _should_ I have said?" he bit off. "You were _seventeen_ , practically a _child_. You'd never been out of your tiny corner of the world, you knew nothing of the world beyond the walls of Rabanastre. And there were more important things to focus on – namely, _not dying_." He made a raw sound of fury deep in his throat. "But you're not a child any longer. You're experienced enough to recognize jealousy when you see it – so don't sit there and tell me you don't understand why I'm angry that it took only three days for you to go from me to another man."

Her head whirled; his words clanged around inside it, not _quite_ making sense. He was _jealous_? He was this angry simply because she'd solicited a kiss from another man? And he _was_ angry still; he seethed with it, and even if he had not shouted, that controlled aggression would have to be let loose sooner or later. She was a little bit terrified of what would happen when it did.

She floundered for words, uncertain whether or not she owed him an apology, whether she would give him one even if she did. "I didn't know," she said at last, lamely. "I mean – for the last three days, you haven't said anything or done anything." He hadn't so much as touched her.

He scoffed. "You would have worked yourself into a panic if I had," he said. "I thought you would appreciate time to process with no additional pressures – I had no idea you would go off half-cocked, looking for someone on whom to test your wiles." His mouth was drawn in exasperation; his eyes glowed with feverish intensity.

" _Test my wiles_?" she repeated, incredulous. "For the gods' sake – it was just a kiss!"

But to him it had been a threat; the mere mention of the word set that muscle back to ticking in his cheek. Nothing had blunted the sharp edge of his anger; not her explanation, not the admission that it had not affected her. Her heart thudded in her chest, alarm skittering up her spine as he released her wrist. There was a gleam in his eyes that made a warning trill in her head, had her tensed at the edge of her seat, poised to run.

And he knew it, too. She could see it in his face; he knew _exactly_ what a coward she was.

He made an effort to modulate his tone. "You will always have a choice with me," he said. "Right now you have two: you can run _that_ way –" he gestured toward the corridor, to the safety of her room, "–and this discussion ends and will never be revisited. Or you can run _that_ way –" He gestured this time to the deck, "–and I will chase you. I will catch you. And this time, I swear I will make you scream."

She jolted from her seat, flustered and confused by her visceral reaction to the calmly spoken words. Her skin felt tight and hot; her breath came in short pants. She patted at her burning cheeks, mortified by the liquid heat that had gathered low in her belly, that just those carefully chosen words could evoke a riot of emotions.

She skittered backwards a few steps, although he had not made the slightest move in her direction. He only watched her with acute interest, observing that she had not yet chosen a direction.

"You're…you're still angry." Anxiety skyrocketed, spiked through the roof – she could hear the pounding of her blood in her ears, feel it surge through her veins.

"Extremely." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "But I would _never_ harm you."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him so badly. She swallowed hard, conflicted – she had wanted to give him a chance to prove himself better, and this would most certainly be the moment of truth.

She could run to safety, but then she would never _know_. She could always run later, but she couldn't come back once she did.

And so she hoped to the gods that he wouldn't disappoint her, and she fled.

To the deck.

* * *

She careened onto the deck, Balthier's exultant laughter echoing in her ears. In the heat of the moment she had forgotten a crucial detail – the Aerodrome was _packed_. At least thirty people walked the aisles, traveling to or from their own airships.

Balthier's boots pounded on the wood floor of the corridor, and he appeared a moment later.

"Wait!" she squeaked, holding out a hand to halt his progress. "There are _people_ out there!"

"Yes," he said. "They can't see in. The glass has a privacy coating." He stalked her like a cat with a mouse, chasing her back toward the pilot's chair – just as he had said he would.

" _I_ can see _them_ ," she said.

Supremely unconcerned, he offered only, "Then _close your eyes_." His hand snatched up her wrist, dragged her across the space that separated them, and she hitched up against his chest. He released her wrist to tunnel his hands into her hair, angling her head, and she braced herself for the inevitable – he would unleash that fury, smash his lips against hers in a brutal travesty of a kiss.

Instead, he brushed his lips just at the corner of her mouth, a mere whisper of a caress.

With a sob of relief, she wilted against him, trepidation melting away like snow in the sun. Her arms rose to curl around his neck, and she lifted herself onto her toes. One of his hands cupped her chin, and his thumb stroked along her cheek.

"I'm not always going to be gentle," he said roughly. "But you never have to fear that I will hurt you."

She could feel him against her belly, and she moved restlessly against him, squirming to get closer. She shivered as he pressed his lips to her throat, her hips arching to his, and his breath caught on an agonized groan.

He eased her away, and his voice was a harsh rasp from between clenched teeth. "Can't hold out," he said. "I swear to you, I'll make it good." He turned her around, and the pilot's chair pressed against her stomach. And still he urged her forward, bending her over it.

She whispered his name in confusion, and he soothed her with a murmur, leaning down to press a comforting kiss to the back of her neck, even as he clasped her hands, stretching them out to wrap them around the armrests. She fidgeted, uncertain – but he leaned over her, trailing a reverent hand down the slope of her back, whispering praise in her ear. His palm cupped her hip, slid across her belly, and then delved beneath the waistband of her pants, and she shuddered as his fingers touched her, discovered the revealing dampness between her thighs.

He muttered something against the back of her neck that sounded like, " _Thank the gods_ ," and she made a strangled sound as his fingers slipped inside her, rising onto her toes to entice him to linger.

He didn't. She whimpered her displeasure, rocking back as he removed his hand. And then his fingers discovered the tiny silver zipper that held her pants snug against her hips, and she heard the rasp of it sliding down – his hands seized the fabric of her pants, dragging it down over her hips until it hit mid-thigh.

A frisson of alarm pierced her brain. "What –"

One of his hands cupped her shoulder, squeezing in silent reassurance. She heard the _clink_ of his belt buckle, the rasp of his own zipper. She felt him brush against her bottom as he bent over her, heard his voice at her ear as he said, "Hold on, darling."

And she gasped, her nails biting into the varnished wood of the armrests as he slid smoothly inside her, and she realized abruptly that he had been holding back before. Her arms trembled, and she whispered, " _Oh, gods_."

He wasn't gentle, and she didn't care. There were people milling around outside, and she didn't care. And she seethed with frustration, because he pressed his knee into the fabric of her pants caught between her legs, pulling it tight and pinning her there, motionless. She wanted to move, _needed_ to move. But he wouldn't let her; he kept her caught fast with the weight of his body, with the pressure of his knee between her legs, and she could only grip the armrests and brace herself for the coming storm.

This time, she wasn't certain she would survive it. The fury that gripped him translated into the rough clutch of his hands on her hip and her shoulder, holding her steady to receive each sure thrust. If she had had the presence of mind, she might've been frightened by the intensity – but her thoughts had narrowed to the harsh breaths that tore from his throat, to the tormented sounds that broke from her own.

And every stroke touched something deep inside her, whipping her into a frenzy of tortured desire.

Her breath came in ragged pants, her knees shook with the effort to keep herself on her toes, and her palms were slipping on the armrests. "Please," she whimpered. " _Please_."

He managed a half-chuckle as he slid his palm down her belly, stroking her even as he drove himself deep inside her.

She shattered.

She _screamed_.

Outside the _Strahl_ , a dozen or so people traversing the concourse paused, searching for the source of the phantom sound, but none of them gave the _Strahl_ anything more than a cursory glance, a fact for which she would have been grateful had she been able to do anything more than suffer the intense contractions that seized her.

Through a wave of bliss she heard his groan at her ear, felt his hips jerk and his arms clench around her. And then he shuddered, and his chest pressed against her back, rising and falling with the rapid breaths that sizzled against her ear. Her over-sensitized skin prickled with gooseflesh; she didn't think she was going to be able to remain standing on her own.

For a moment neither of them moved. She struggled to draw air into her burning lungs, shivering helplessly as he nuzzled the nape of her neck, his satisfied smile searing her skin. And then he lifted himself away, and she groped for the back of the chair, locking her knees in a desperate effort to remain standing.

She didn't know why, but she felt a bit like crying. It might've been relief that, despite his obvious anger, he hadn't hurt her. Or, at least, that might've been _part_ of it – it had taken a great deal of faith to take the risk that she had.

She wasn't used to acting on faith.

He righted their rumpled clothing, his hands gentle as he slid her pants back up over her hips and then carefully pried her fingers loose of their death grip on the back of the chair, turning her to face him.

"Are you still angry?" she murmured, her gaze affixed to the hollow of his throat, where his rapid pulse beat a hard tattoo. He was too close; she could feel the heat of his body even through her own clothing, and his hands had settled on her shoulders with firm pressure, as if prepared to catch her should she fall.

"Perhaps a bit," he acknowledged, and she heard the grit in his voice, the rough remnants of intemperate emotions. His lips touched the top of her head, stirring her mussed hair. His arms slid around her, easing her closer to his chest, feeling the tremor that ran through her.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt front, breathing in the scent of his aftershave, the warm, clean scent of his soap. It collected in her lungs, steadying her, grounding her as much as his strong arms.

"No, _I'm_ sorry." His lips touched her temple, drifted across the delicate skin to her forehead. "I didn't mean – I hope I didn't –" His voice faded into a low growl of frustration, unable to complete the thought.

He thought he had scared her, she realized. Or maybe he thought he had hurt her – or both. Beneath her cheek she felt the tightness of his muscles pulled taut and tense, but his hands were so gentle on her back, on the nape of her neck where his fingers stroked and played in her hair. _He_ was afraid – afraid he had given her a promise that he had promptly broken, afraid he had violated her trust, violated _her_.

"You didn't," she murmured, and she felt his tension splinter, felt the reassured sigh he heaved. His arms contracted around her, and she heard the low rumble of his voice muffled against her hair, unintelligible – but the thread of relief running through it was clear.

She wanted to arch into the soft caress of his fingers on her neck, but when she pushed up onto her toes, her knees buckled. She would have collapsed if not for his arm at her back, and she clutched at his shoulders, embarrassed. Rather than steadying her on her feet, he swept her into his arms, and she made a soft sound of surprise in her throat.

"Oh," she said, self-consciously. "I'm fine, really – you don't have to –"

But he silenced her with a kiss, stealing the words from her mouth. Dimly, she was aware that he was moving, that they had left the deck and he was proceeding past the kitchen and down the corridor. She didn't know how he had managed it, since he certainly wasn't paying attention to where he was going.

She heard a door open, and the light from the corridor faded away. Darkness pressed in around her, and her equilibrium was knocked askew as he shifted her in his arms. There was the rustle of blankets, and her back touched cool covers over a firm mattress. The scent of his soap washed up around her, and her senses reeled. Through the slatted blinds over the window, only a soft trickle of light struggled in – not enough to see him clearly, but enough to see the shadow of him leaning over her.

His hands skimmed up her belly, sliding beneath her shirt, easing it upward. He had braced himself between her thighs, and a surge of sensation tingled through her, tiny licks of flame following the path his fingers slowly traversed up her chest.

His lips teased hers, and she shivered, adrift in the cool embrace of the darkness, in the hot caress of his hands on her bare skin. "Now – I'm going to make it up to you," he said, his voice a velvety murmur that stroked across her every sensitive nerve-ending.

He said the words with all the lush sweetness of a promise, but she could almost take them as a threat. How much more could she possibly take?

And she feared that the answer was far too simple: whatever he would give.

* * *

Balthier woke some hours later to a rhythmic sound from the corridor – someone was tapping at the _Strahl's_ hull. For a moment he thought perhaps that Vaan had caught up with them at last, but he disregarded that almost immediately. Vaan wouldn't content himself with a gentle tap; he'd be pounding viciously away.

Penelo was still asleep, thoroughly exhausted, her body curled up against his side. She made a soft sound of irritation as he eased himself away, her fingers stretching across the mattress in search of him until at last she surrendered with a tiny murmur of discontent and turned her face into the pillow he'd vacated. In the darkness he stumbled into a pair of trousers, then padded silently to the deck, jamming the button that would engage the dock. As the mechanism whirred, he headed for the rear of the ship.

A young man stood on the dock, dressed in the uniform of an Aerodrome steward. "Message for you, sir," he said, extending a sheet of paper. "It was sent out to all Aerodromes this afternoon to be held until it reached you."

Balthier snagged the paper, examining the return address – his solicitor. "My thanks," he said absently, as the steward gave an obsequious little bow and turned to leave.

Balthier stalked back onto the ship as he scanned the lines, his face drawing into a scowl. With one hand he massaged the tense muscles at the back of his neck – with the other, he crumpled the note in his fist, casting it into the kitchen waste basket.

His father's wife had expired at last, the miserable old bat.

But she had left no living relatives, and there was no one to see to her burial arrangements. No – that unwelcome task fell squarely upon Balthier's shoulders.

Even in death, she managed to sink her vicious claws into him. And yet, he couldn't summon an emotion other than annoyance; she had managed to shadow his otherwise perfectly pleasant evening.

He made a rough sound of aggravation, as he closed up the ship again – no matter; it would all keep until morning. After all, _she_ was hardly going anywhere.

Penelo murmured something as he slipped back into bed, sighing as he drew her close once again, her head settling on his shoulders, her soft limbs tangling with his.

He brushed her hair away from her face, relishing the warmth of her small body soaking into his. "Shh," he soothed, sliding an arm beneath her to secure her against his side. "Dawn's a long way off, yet."


	19. Chapter 19

Penelo hovered at the edge of wakefulness, hoping that when Balthier returned she would be able to sink back into sleep once more. He'd risen a few minutes before, and his pillow had already cooled. Now the heat of his body was leeching from the place he had once rested, and she shivered a bit, mourning the loss.

The low hum of the _Strahl's_ engines began, and moments later she felt the list of the ship as it escaped its moorings, slipping free from the bonds of the earth to lift into the sky. As the _Strahl_ left behind the low light of the Aerodrome, the early morning sunlight pierced the slats in the blinds, carving shafts of bright light across the room.

The ship leveled out and straightened, having achieved a proper altitude – a sure sign that Balthier had plotted a course and engaged the autopilot, which meant that he'd soon be returning. She couldn't hear his footfalls over the _Strahl's_ engines, but she did hear the squeak of the door hinges.

He climbed back into the bed, nudging her over to reclaim his pillow, and she dragged the rumpled covers up to her chin. But he settled back against the pillows, making a place for her within the circle of his arms, and she went with a vague sense of disquiet at how easily he draped his arm around her, how well her head fit in the crook of his shoulder. It shouldn't have been as comfortable as it was – or at least, she didn't think so. She had never liked sleeping with Raen like this.

But she liked it too much with Balthier, liked that he pursued her restlessly if she turned in her sleep, chasing her across the covers and only settling down again when he could slide his arm across her back as if to reassure himself that she was still there. She liked that his hands tended to fist in her hair, rubbing it in his fingers as if it were fine silk cloth. She even liked his soft snoring, the rhythmic rumble in his chest rather like the purr of a large cat.

It was worrisome. She didn't know how she ought to react, what she ought to think.

Instead she turned her face into his chest in an effort to blot out the persistent light that struggled into the room through the blinds, and murmured, "Where are we going?"

"Archades," he said absently, prying loose her tight grip on the covers to straighten them. "I've got some unpleasant business to attend to. Darling, _relax_ ," he chided. "It's early yet; go back to sleep."

She made a frustrated sound in her throat, her shoulders drawing tight with burgeoning anxiety. "I don't know how I'm supposed to act," she said on a pitiful wail. "I don't know what you want from me."

His palm settled between her shoulder blades, rubbing away the tension. He bussed a kiss to the top of her head and with his free hand he caught her hand up, worked his thumb between her clenched fingers and massaged her palm until her hand went lax, then laid it flat on his chest and covered it with his own. His heartbeat beneath her palm was soothing; she found herself unwittingly relaxing, her legs sliding along his, her cheek pillowed comfortably on his chest.

"Just you," he said softly. "Just be _you_."

* * *

Most of the day had rushed by in a blur. Penelo felt off-balance, in a state of more or less constant surprise.

Balthier was swaggering again, and he had surrendered the last of his anger. He had also managed to extract from her, in a moment of weakness engineered entirely by him, a promise that she would refrain from soliciting kisses from anyone else.

She didn't know what she had expected out of the morning – she was accustomed to leers, critiques on her _performance_ , and snide comments.

Balthier wanted only her companionship. He was content to sit beside her at the bar, drinking coffee and making idle conversation, but nothing that delved too deeply, as if he were aware of her apprehension and sought to allay it with old, familiar patterns, and the rhythm of their light, comfortable chatter soothed her shot nerves.

He touched her on occasion, tiny little indicators of familiarity – tucking her hair behind her ear when it fell into her face, laying his palm on the small of her back or his hand over hers on the bar for just a second or two. At first she had started with surprise, unaccustomed to it – but gradually it had ceased to seem quite so strange, and though it always caught her attention, it no longer startled her as it had initially.

At the tail end of the evening and midway through her second glass of sweet wine, a chime had sounded on the deck, alerting them that the ship was rapidly approaching Archades. Balthier had made his way to the deck to guide the _Strahl_ into its descent, and before she was even fully aware of it, she had trailed along behind in his wake, dropping into the seat beside him.

She liked to watch him fly; he took a sort of pleasure in it that went beyond mere enjoyment – the way his hands gripped the yoke brought to mind other things that made her shiver and pat her cheeks to ward off the blush that threatened.

She curled into her seat, clutching her glass of wine in both hands, watching the city rush toward them through the glass of the windshield. It had expanded over the past few years, it seemed, and the streets were thick with throngs of people and cabs hurtling around. There was a kind of organized chaos to it, but she didn't relish the thought of entering it herself at the moment. The Aerodrome loomed on the horizon, and the _Strahl_ dipped toward it, zipping through the open air and nimbly coming to land at its assigned dock.

Balthier killed the engines, and the ambient noise of them faded into the dull roar of city sounds – the honk of cabs outside, the _whoosh_ of other vessels arriving and departing, the distant, monotone announcements over the intercom system. He glanced over at her, reading in her expression her reticence to venture forth into the city.

"I've got to pay a visit to my solicitor," he said. "Would you prefer to remain here?"

"Yes," she said on a sigh of relief. "I mean – it's so _loud_."

He chuckled, amused. "All right, then. I don't know how long I'll be, so don't feel obliged to wait up." And, as if it were an old, ingrained habit, he brushed his lips across her cheek in an absent farewell, and turned to leave.

Her skin sizzled for a solid minute afterward. And the moment she knew he had gone, and the ship's dock had retracted once more into its hull, she flipped on the communications system and hailed the _Galbana._

The line had hardly had the opportunity to connect before Vaan's furious voice screeched over the speakers, turning the air blue with a steady stream of expletives. Penelo had never heard anything like it – and she'd spent the last three years stuck in a tavern that catered to only the lowest, least sophisticated sorts.

She cleared her throat and tried to interject, "Vaan."

He hadn't heard her over his own racket; his foul language continued unabated.

" _Vaan_." She tried again, exasperation coloring her tone. And then again, " _Vaan_!"

His voice died away mid-sentence, clearly puzzled to hear _her_ voice instead of Balthier's. But he recovered swiftly, launching into a rapid-fire barrage of questions. "Penelo? Are you all right? Do you need help? Has _he_ kept you from calling? Where are you?"

Penelo pinched the bridge of her nose, heaving a sigh, wondering if she ought not to have bothered calling after all. "I don't need help – I'm just fine. Balthier hasn't kept me from doing anything."

"But he wouldn't let me talk to you! He was _supposed_ to help find you and return you!" The petulant tone of his voice shredded her nerves, and a surge of irritation swept through her.

" _Return_ me?" she snapped. "For the gods' sake – I'm not property to be _returned_!"

"It was part of the deal," he insisted, oblivious to her irritation. "He wasn't supposed to _keep_ you!"

"I'm not being kept!" She slapped her palm on the dash in frustration. "Vaan – put Fran on."

"Why?" he asked, suspicion in his voice. "What do you have to say to her that you can't say to me?"

She gritted her teeth, snarling, "I want to talk to Fran. _In private_."

"Is this about Balthier?"

" _Now_ , Vaan!" _This_ had been a huge part of why she had not wanted to return to her previous role aboard the _Galbana_ – Vaan could never let anything go, and he would press and press until she snapped.

A tense silence spun out, broken only by the faint static over the line.

At last, Fran's voice echoed forth from the speakers, pitched low as if to prevent prying ears from overhearing. "He has gone."

Penelo sighed in relief. "How did you manage that?" she asked.

"It was simple enough. I merely tossed him into his room and wedged a chair beneath the door handle," Fran replied.

Penelo threw back her head and laughed. Vaan had met his match in Fran, who had no patience whatsoever for his stubborn tenacity. She solved problems as they arose, in the quickest and most effective way possible – and she had learned well enough how to manage rash young humes.

"You could always have him tossed in jail again," Penelo suggested, only half-joking. "I mean, with Vaan out of the way, you could come back."

There was a brief hesitation. "Is that what you want?" Fran asked, finally. "Do you wish to strike out on your own?"

Penelo curled up in her seat, drawing her legs beneath her. "It's not fair for me to just barge in and take over. The _Strahl_ is your home, too," she said. "Why does it have to be one or the other?"

"The _Strahl_ has but two rooms. Where would you stay?" Fran asked. And when Penelo failed to provide a response, she murmured, " _Ah,_ I see."

Penelo made a strangled sound in her throat, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I just…I don't think I understand him very well," she said. "You know him better than anyone, don't you?"

"Presumably not as well as _you_ do," Fran said dryly, and Penelo was profoundly thankful that Fran could not see the wave of heat that flooded her face.

Penelo shifted uncomfortably. "He told me that…that five years ago…"

"That he harbored some affection for you?" Fran inquired.

"Not _exactly_ how he phrased it," Penelo muttered. "I don't understand _why_ – and I certainly had no idea."

"He would not have wished you to," Fran said. "You were a complication he could ill afford."

"A _complication_?" Penelo repeated, vaguely insulted.

Something of her chagrin must've leeched through in her voice, and Fran sighed. "You were very young," she said. "And he was…unprepared, as yet, to shoulder the ramifications of his fascination with you. There was so much else at stake."

His _fascination_? She had the dizzying sense that Fran thought she was imparting some great and revealing knowledge, but Penelo only found herself more puzzled that she had been to begin with. "I don't understand what you mean," she said. "What ramifications?"

"The usual sort, I should expect, that result when one finds that which they seek," came the oblique response.

Doubtful, Penelo said, "You _can't_ be serious. He certainly wasn't seeking _me_." She managed a rusty laugh, and continued, "He was after the promise of a reward, with the added benefit of revenge against his father."

Fran said, "That was only the whim of a moment, a task undertaken for the glory and adventure in it. Perhaps he did not seek _you_ , but I would consider him twice over again as fortunate, for _you_ found _him_ instead."

Penelo found that exceptionally difficult to believe. Fran seemed to be under the mistaken apprehension that Balthier's _heart_ had been engaged somehow, and just the thought of it seemed ludicrous. And yet, his own words resounded in her head: _I chose you_. Just three simple, ordinary, devastating words.

She shook her head as if to clear it, absently murmuring, "I always thought I annoyed him somehow."

"You did," Fran said. "Only…not for the reasons you might've imagined." A few beats of silence, drawn out until it screamed in Penelo's ears. "Have you learned all you wished to know?" Fran inquired finally.

No, not at all – she rather thought she had acquired more questions than answers. The bits of Fran's version of the past jumbled in her mind, throwing her thoughts into chaotic disorder. And so, in a desperate bid to reclaim the space inside her own head, she said, "Yes, of course. I've got to go – _please_ tell Vaan to knock it off."

And she cut the line, and left the deck for the kitchen, in search of another drink.

* * *

Balthier returned in the early hours of the morning to find Penelo slumped over the bar, her head pillowed upon her folded arms, with an empty bottle of wine placed near her elbow. Her brows were drawn together, her lips compressed into a fractious pout as if she found no solace even in sleep.

He picked up the bottle of wine, examining the label plastered across its face – she'd opened this one herself, which meant she'd gone through probably a bottle and a half all on her own.

Shaking his head ruefully, he brushed at her tangled hair. "You're going to feel that tomorrow," he said. "What in the world were you thinking?"

She stirred, grumbling something unintelligible as she hid her face in her folded arms. Balthier disposed of the empty wine bottle – she'd likely have conniptions if she ever learned that the bottle she'd chosen had been worth somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy thousand gil – and then carefully scooped her off of the chair.

She woke with a start, clutching at his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh even through the starched linen of his shirt. "Oh," she said on a weary sigh. "You're back." She blinked as though her lashes were weighted, as if it took considerable effort to keep her eyes open.

"Good of you to notice." He had thought she would protest his manhandling, but she only laid her head on his shoulder, yawning. "You ought to have been asleep by now."

"I _was_."

"In a proper bed." He had expected to find her fast asleep, preferably in _his_ bed. And he wondered if perhaps she just hadn't been certain where she ought to go – she might have been looking to him for some sort of guidance. "Have you any idea of what time it is?"

"Have _you_?" she challenged. "I had drinking to do; that's why I didn't go to bed."

"So I saw." He shifted her to flick off the kitchen lights, not missing the sigh of relief she had given as the darkness had pressed in around them. "Care to enlighten me on what provoked your desire to polish off an entire bottle of wine by yourself?"

"No," she said primly, turning up her nose. She either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared that he had opened the door to his own bedroom. But she certainly _did_ notice when he dropped her unceremoniously upon the bed – she bounced, gasping in surprise.

She cast a sulky glance up at him, thrusting herself up on her elbows, preparing to throw her legs over the side of the bed and rise. He pressed her back down, palm flat upon her chest. "Stay there," he said. "I don't care to test your equilibrium at the moment."

She looked as if she wanted to argue, but apparently she either thought better of it, or perhaps she simply deduced that he would win regardless, and so she gave it up, dropping her head back upon the pillow. He retreated to the washroom, rifling through the cabinets for the spare potions he kept on hand.

When he returned, she had clasped one hand to her forehead and the other draped over her stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her mouth twisted into a grimace.

"The wrath of grapes, I take it?" And if his voice was just a bit amused, well – she had gotten herself into this, after all.

She cracked one eye open, narrowed it in a fierce glare at him. "Just for that," she grated irritably through a tight throat, "I am _definitely_ aiming for your pillow if I vomit." But she couldn't hold the peevish expression for long – she groaned miserably and gasped, "Everything's spinning."

And he sighed, crossed to the side of the bed, and fished her left leg out from beneath the tangle she'd wrought of the covers, pulling it over the side of the bed and setting her foot firmly upon the floor.

"Oh," she said, in a surprised tone, "That's…actually better."

"Mm." He plucked the cork from the potion, caught up her hand and pressed the tiny bottle into it. "Drink it – you'll regret it in the morning if you don't." He considered that for a moment, and concluded, "You'll likely regret it in the morning anyway, but it can't hurt."

She threw back the liquid like an old pro well-acquainted with swilling shots. But then, working in the tavern as she had been, she had probably _had_ to be. He took the bottle she held out to him, tossing it into the wastebasket. With no small amount of effort – and quite a bit of bellyaching from her, as she hadn't relished the thought of moving – he managed to wrestle her out of her clothing and beneath the covers once more.

"You haven't asked what kept me," he said as he crawled into bed beside her.

"I didn't want to pry," she said. "I figured if you had wanted me to know, you would have told me."

It was a perfectly reasonable, rational, _polite_ response. He could hardly be upset that she had elected not to stick her nose into his business – but he _wanted_ her to pry. He wanted her to be curious…to _care_.

He folded his arms beneath his head and said, "My solicitor sent a message while we were in Balfonheim. My father's wife has passed on, and so it became necessary to arrange a swift funeral."

"Oh." Her lips pursed as if to hold back an unwise comment. After a moment, she risked it anyway: "Honestly, I'm not sure if I should be offering sympathy or congratulations."

He chuckled. "Bit of both, I suppose."

She rolled onto her side to face him. "Will you go to the funeral? I mean – just because you have to arrange for it doesn't mean you have to _attend_."

"I think I'd like to see her consigned to her grave for myself," he said. "Just to assure myself that she really is six feet under, and will trouble me no more."

Her fingers tapped out a muted rhythm on the mattress. "Would it be okay if I went with you?"

He lifted a brow. "You're volunteering _now_ , when you have yet to discover the magnitude of the hangover you'll likely experience tomorrow?"

She wrinkled her nose, waving her hand dismissively. "I've had them before; I'll be fine."

Thatwas doubtful, but he was hardly going to turn up his nose at her offer. "Then, yes," he said. "I would like that very much."

* * *

She was _not_ fine. The sunlight pierced her eyes with the force of an icepick, and the city noise coalesced into a roar that made her ears ring. Every turn of the cab set her stomach pitching in a new direction, forcing her to grit her teeth against a wave of nausea. And Balthier could only sit across from her, smiling placidly.

"I _did_ warn you," he said. And he had, several times – and she'd disregarded him every time.

"I was –" She broke off abruptly, with a small sound of distress as the cab zipped around a tight corner, throwing her up against the wall, "– _trying_ to be supportive."

"Yes, well, you look like you're about to be _supportive_ all over my boots." He fished in his vest pocket, and she heard the faint _clink_ of tiny glass bottles – and when he pulled out the potion, she snatched for it desperately.

It didn't really do much for the nausea, but it certainly dulled the sharp pain of the light and noise to a manageable ache. "I can't believe you stuff your pockets with potions," she said. "Not that I'm not grateful."

"I don't, typically," he said. "But then, I can't recall the last time I traveled with someone so prone to mishaps. I thought it would be best to be prepared."

Blast him, he was _enjoying_ her discomfort. That smug smile lingering at the corners of his mouth – she was tempted to give in and ruin his boots after all. But the cab lurched to a halt, and Balthier's smirk faded as he glanced out the window.

"It would seem we've arrived," he said, in an inscrutable voice. He passed over the fee to the driver, and a mantle of stalwart forbearance settled over his shoulders. "Let's get this done with, shall we?"

Penelo shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun as she stepped out of the cab, pleased to note that they'd left the clamor of the city behind them for the more subdued peace of the countryside – she hadn't realized quite how long they'd been riding, but it had been long enough for the paved city streets to give way to a cobblestone path that cut through rolling hills covered with lush green grass.

The cemetery was large and sprawling, dotted with tombstones and monuments, its well-maintained lawns peppered with hedges and trees and the odd bouquet of flowers left here and there, tributes from grieving relatives.

"My father's sons are interred here," Balthier said. "She would wish to be near her children, I think."

"That was kind of you," she said. Given the history between them, she was frankly surprised that Balthier had been moved to such consideration.

"I'd just as soon as tossed her into the nearest alley like so much rubbish," he said. "But the plot was paid for already." But though the words were meant to be unfeeling and callous, the undertone that bled through suggested he was not as indifferent as he seemed.

On instinct she slipped her hand into his, and after a heartbeat of surprised silence, he clasped his around hers. In the distance, Penelo could see a freshly-dug plot of earth in the shade of a massive willow tree, and an ornate mahogany coffin resting beside it. There were rows and rows of chairs set out, presumably for mourners – but there were only a handful of people in attendance.

"Are we early?" she asked as they approached.

"No," he said, reading her question as the confusion over the paltry attendance that it was. "To the best of my knowledge, she had few friends. I didn't wish to waste my time tracking down mourners, so I posted an announcement of her passing in the papers, along with the time and location of her service. The few that are here must've read of it."

There was a couple in the front row, sitting so stiffly that neither of their backs touched their chairs, and when the man turned slightly and Penelo caught a glimpse of his face, a surge of fury caught her by surprise. She knew her fingers had tightened on Balthier's to the point of pain, knew that he was looking down at her, baffled.

"I'd rather sit in the back, if you don't mind," she whispered. And then, to defray suspicion, she managed a half-smile. "There's more shade."

He didn't believe her, of course – but he nonetheless directed them to the back row, all the way to the end, in the deep shade of the nearest willow. And Penelo sat rigidly, wishing she had not come after all.

A few moments passed in utter silence, but at last the clergyman who had been waiting in the wings checked his timepiece one last time and decided that no one else would be coming. He shuffled to the front, pulled a crumpled packet of papers from his pocket, and began to drone on about the deceased woman and her passing.

Balthier heaved an impatient sigh, and his right knee jogged up and down. "I ought to have known," he murmured. "Most of the people who've come are just as hateful as she was."

"Oh?" Her throat was tight, her fingers were twisted in her lap.

"Mm. You see, that man there," He gestured to an elderly man in the third row, whose richly-embroidered coat and towering wig marked him as nobility. "That's Lord Venwitt. He's in debt up to his eyes, and still he spends his family into the poorhouse for the sake of maintaining his wardrobe." He gestured then to a lady a few rows in front of them. "Mrs. Elodie Langlow," he said. "She once claimed a title, but it was revoked due to her mistreatment of those in her employ. She's been exiled from court these past four years, I believe." And then he jabbed a finger toward the couple in the front row, and Penelo stiffened. "Asraen Trensom and his wife, Yulia."

"His _wife_?" The words escaped before she could snatch them back and swallow them down.

"I knew him at school; he's the third son of a minor lord and enjoyed nothing more than reminding me of my illegitimacy –" His voice died abruptly as his head snapped toward her. He said, "As _raen_. No, tell me truly. _Him_?"

She ducked her head, heat suffusing her face. "I certainly didn't know he was _married_."

Balthier blew out a breath. "Oh, yes," he said. "Quite married. And by all accounts, terribly unhappily. Rumor has it that her father misled him as to the size of her dowry, and he's made her suffer for it ever since. Quite the shame; she's always been a good sort. He's only a third son, so he would have needed to marry well or risk having to actually _work_ for his living. That's likely why he targeted you – your money could have kept him comfortably for some time."

She heard the burgeoning anger in his voice and knew that he was dangerously close to causing a scene. At a _funeral_. And so she placed her hand on his and said, quietly and firmly, "Please. It's not necessary."

"I beg to differ," he said. And he smiled, for the clergyman was wrapping up his speech, and the cemetery employees were taking their places to lower the coffin into the dirt. Balthier patted her hand. "There's going to be a scene anyway, darling."

She made a rough sound of frustration. "I wish you wouldn't."

"Oh, not me – _him_." He muffled a vengeful chuckle with one hand. "You see, my father's wife was Asraen's godmother. And if he's still got pockets to let, as I suspect he does, he's here for one reason only: to see what she's left to him."

Penelo's brow furrowed. "But how could she leave him anything? She didn't have –"

"Precisely. She could leave him nothing because she _owned_ nothing. And watch here: he'll be making an inquiry to the clergyman as to who is handling her affairs." The ruthless satisfaction in his voice gave Penelo pause, and she knew he was looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. His hand lifted from hers, curling into a fist as if imagining plowing it through Raen's face.

Just as Balthier had predicted, Raen and his wife approached the clergyman, offered their hands for him to clasp, and then Raen leaned in, whispering a discreet question. The clergyman's eyes scanned the crowd, moving back through the rows until at last his gaze settled on Balthier.

As the clergyman gestured toward Balthier, Penelo slouched in her seat, attempting to escape notice by tucking herself out of line of sight, sheltered by the ridiculously high hat of the woman seated before her.

"He's scowling," Balthier whispered to her in a voice filled with vindictive delight. "Come, now, you should enjoy this – believe me, it's going to be _fun_."


	20. Chapter 20

Penelo really, _really_ did not want to deal with Raen. Her stomach was still unsettled, and she knew she must look just as haggard as she felt. And so, as the attendees rose from their seats, ostensibly to depart, she used the distraction of the small crowd to sneak away before Raen could lay eyes on her.

He wouldn't be expecting her here, anyway. He had no reason to suspect that she was anywhere other than exactly where he'd left her. She ducked behind the trunk of the willow as a surge of rage swelled, and she clenched her jaw, breathing heavily until it passed. Balthier had seen her go, but he hadn't called attention to her – perhaps he had simply wished to let her handle her business in her own way.

She snuck a peek at him. He gave a passable impression of indifference, but his hands curled reflexively into fists, and she knew he was fighting his own urge to give Raen a piece of his mind…or his temper. By the subtle tightness of his jaw, it was probably going to be his temper. Good gods – she was going to be at least _partly_ responsible for fisticuffs at a _funeral_.

From behind her, a man cleared his throat. "Has the service concluded?"

" _Shh_ ," she hissed, her attention focused solely on the two men squaring off with one another. "Keep your voice down!"

"Well," the man said, in a baffled voice. "I suppose that puts me in my place."

There was a flutter of nervous laughter from another man, who said in an ingratiating voice, "Your majesty, I am _certain_ she didn't intend to be rude."

 _Your majesty_? A surreal sense of shock trembled down Penelo's spine, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. _Larsa_ – she hadn't recognized his voice, but then five years' difference from a boy just on the cusp of manhood would do that. She knew her mouth hung agape, but she turned anyway, and looked up – and up some more. He had grown at least a foot, and likely more in the intervening years since last they'd met. He wore his hair long, pulled into a sedate queue, and bound at the nape of his neck. For some reason, she had expected him to still be the precocious child-emperor she had once known, and it was disconcerting to meet him again, here and now, as a man grown.

"I am equally certain she _did_ ," Larsa said. "She has never been one to stand on ceremony."

He was in line of sight of the other attendees, and it was bound to cause a stir. And if his presence revealed her hiding place, she would be forced to take action.

"Keep your voice down," she hissed again, seizing his lapels and jerking him within the cover of the willow. "You're going to be noticed! Why are you even here?"

The attendant he'd brought with him blustered, "It is the prerogative of the emperor to go wherever he wishes!"

Penelo slanted the man a murderous glance, and Larsa, carefully pulling his coat from her grasp, said, "Kinney, kindly shut up, or I'm quite sure that Penelo will silenceyou herself." With one gloved hand, he gestured for the attendant to secret himself out of view as well.

Penelo peeked out from behind the shelter of the drooping branches. "Have you come to pay your respects?"

Larsa snorted. "Good gods, no – that woman was poison incarnate. I simply had to see for myself that she'd passed on. I never would've believed it otherwise; I thought for certain she was so bitter and unpleasant that not even death would have her." He eased around her to poke his head out in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what she had been hiding from. "I came round the back to avoid the crowd and spotted you quite by chance. What are _you_ doing here? For that matter – why are we hiding?"

She pulled a face. "It's a long story," she said.

"Well, it would seem that we've both got time," he said. "And I might add, I am still ratherput out that you haven't written in years. I quite enjoyed our correspondence."

"That would be part of the story," she said. "And, for the record, I didn't stop writing because I wanted to, I stopped because _he_ –" She jabbed a finger to indicate Raen, "– dropped me at a tavern in the middle of Rozarria and _left_ me there to work off his debt."

She heard Larsa's soft intake of breath. "He left you there? _Left_ you? How did –"

But before he could finish the question, she tugged the leg of her pants up, exposing the ring of scar tissue encircling her ankle. There was a low sound of raw rage beside her, and she turned to see Larsa rolling up his sleeves in quick, efficient twists, readying himself to charge in.

" _Stop_ ," she hissed. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me." She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and gave her full attention back to Balthier and Raen. "Besides," she said, "it looks like Balthier is putting him in his place well enough on his own."

* * *

Balthier had noticed the instant Penelo had taken her leave, but had resisted the urge to summon her back. So she wasn't yet ready to face the miserable excuse for a man whom she had once loved; that was her prerogative.

She would be, soon enough – or if not, he would be satisfied enough to thrash Raen in her place.

Raen slowed on his approach, his brows drawing together as he struggled to place Balthier's face. But then, it had been almost fifteen years since they had last met, and Balthier had traveled under an assumed name for almost as long. Raen could not reconcile the scrawny lad he had once been with the grown man that stared him down.

He looked much the same as Balthier remembered, as if he had not matured very much in the years that had passed. Handsome enough to lure in naïve young girls, but his mouth was lined in sulky petulance, as if dissatisfied with the entire world. He had the sort of face that was pleasant to look upon, but distinctly lacking in character, his avarice and undeserved pride and shining out his eyes.

Raen's wife, the poor woman, looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else – her lips were pursed into a moue of disgust, her hand hovered over Raen's arm as if loath to touch him. Balthier remembered her as a rather sweet girl, if a bit shy – she had never held his illegitimacy over his head, never had an unkind word to say to anyone to his memory.

"Balthier, is it?" Raen said as he closed the distance between them. He offered his hand, and Balthier stood firm and resolute, declining the dubious honor.

Raen cleared his throat awkwardly. "I am told you are managing my dear, dear godmother's affairs?"

"That's correct," Balthier acknowledged.

Raen's cheeks flushed with color; he plucked at the collar of his shirt as if to loosen it. "I'm certain we have much to discuss, as my godmother has surely left some sort of bequest to her beloved godson."

Yulia bared her teeth in feral snarl. "For the god's sake, Asraen, don't be an ass. She's not even cold in the ground yet."

Balthier's lips twitched – clearly there was no love lost between them. Yulia held as much distaste for her husband as he did.

With gritted teeth, Raen rounded on his unlucky wife. "Hold your tongue and know your place," he snapped. Then he turned again to Balthier, his fury melting into an obsequious smile. "I beg your pardon; my wife has taken leave of her manners."

Yulia stiffened; her eyes blazed and her jaw clenched, but she said nothing – though she looked as though she would have dearly liked to.

Balthier said, "She left you nothing."

Raen laughed, a high, awkward sound. "Surely not – she had quite a large estate. Perhaps we might meet elsewhere and look over the documentation? She had no living heirs; she _must_ have passed something to me."

"That would be quite impossible, as she owned nothing to give." It really was immensely satisfying to see the other man squirm like a fish on a hook. And the killing blow: "Every bit of wealth she laid claim to was solely at my discretion. She had nothing but what I chose to give to her. Her husband's death left it all in my hands."

Yulia laughed, bright, mocking, and utterly delighted. "Oh, that's rich – and it serves you right, Asraen. The last hope to escape a debtor's prison has gone up in smoke."

The blatant pleasure on her face spurred Raen to lift his hand as if to strike her, but Balthier snarled, "If I were you, I would not," and slowly his hand fell, unwilling to risk a physical altercation with Balthier.

"I don't believe you," Raen sniffed disdainfully. "There were no other heirs – I'll petition the courts for the right to inherit in the absence of a living heir. You must've manipulated your way into it."

"Unfortunately for you," Balthier said, "There _is_ a living heir. Bastards have full rights of inheritance so long as they are named."

Raen blanched, his face draining of color until he was sallow as old parchment. A nervous sweat broke across his brow. "No – it can't be _you_."

"Oh," Yulia's giggles eased as her expression shifted into curious wonder. "Ffamran? I must say, I didn't recognize you. You've changed a great deal."

Raen scowled, his face twisting into a snarl of disgust. "Aping his betters," he spat. "Everything about him is contrived! Someone ought to teach him a lesson."

"As you tried to do in school?" Balthier suggested. "I might yet bear the scars of it, but I'll thank you to remember who ultimately got the best of whom in that scuffle. Nevertheless, I invite you to try again." The silky thread of menace in his voice could have made a behemoth quail in fear, and Raen was no exception to it.

Balthier casually unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up his forearms. The latent threat had Raen blustering, "Now, now – there's no need for bloodshed. Let's agree to let bygones be bygones. Have you no respect for the deceased?"

"None at all," Balthier said. "But I'm not going to thrash you for what you've done to _me_."

Yulia took a quick side-step, eager to be out of the line of fire, abandoning her husband to his fate. She scurried to the shelter of the willow, clasping her hands before her in eager anticipation of the fray surely to follow, utterly unaware of Penelo and Larsa lurking just behind the wide trunk.

Raen cringed, more worm than man, glancing desperately around for help from any angle he could find, finding only that none was forthcoming.

"Three years ago," Balthier said, "you abandoned an innocent young girl to the dubious care of a tavern keeper in Rozarria."

"Bah," Raen said. "She was nobody – a low-born, inconsequential sky-pirate."

"Oh?" Balthier inquired. "That hardly seemed to matter to you when you seduced her and angled after her fortune. She was good enough when you thought you could manipulate her into signing it over to you – and when she did not, you abandoned her to three years of slavery to pay off _your_ debt."

"Is that what she told you?" Raen's voice broke high as he struggled for any lie that would drag him out of the hole he'd dropped into. "Women are often wont to exaggerate their own importance. She was just a common harlot, seeking to sink her claws into me."

"That girl," Balthier snarled between clenched teeth, "is dear to me. I'm not going to thrash you for _me –_ I'm going to thrash you for _her_."

* * *

Oh, now this had gone too far. Penelo skirted the tree trunk in the hopes of heading off the violence – and trod upon the skirts of Raen's _wife_. Yulia made a startled sound, her hands flying out to grip the tree trunk to keep her balance.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Penelo reached out to help steady Yulia, but pulled back at the last moment, uncertain if she ought to. Even if Yulia had no idea who her husband's former paramour had been, she was certainly about to find out – and she was sure to be less than pleased.

"It's quite all right," Yulia said absently, shaking out the crushed hem of her skirt. "A little dirt never hurt anything."

And Penelo felt a stab of guilt for having unwittingly aided Raen in betraying his wedding vows – Yulia was a good person, just as Balthier had said, and she did not deserve the treatment she'd received.

As if to echo her thoughts, Yulia said, "You know, I applied to the emperor in the hopes of obtaining a divorce some months ago." She gave a heavy sigh. "I never heard back. So I suppose it'll be debtor's prison for the both of us – though gods alone can say why a wife should be punished for her husband's misdeeds." She watched as Balthier stalked Raen through the cluster of chairs, her face alight with vindictive glee.

Yulia was just as much a victim of Raen's malice as she had been, Penelo realized. Only she was forever entangled with him. Or…maybe _not_ forever entangled with him.

Penelo reached out, seized Larsa's elbow, and tugged him into the open. "You want to help me?" she asked of him. "Help _her_." She shoved him towards Yulia, who, after gaping like a fish at the shock induced by the sudden appearance of her monarch, sank into an awkward curtsey.

Satisfied, Penelo started towards Balthier and Raen. Balthier had succeeded in cornering Raen against a stout oak, and Raen trembled in anticipation of the blow that Balthier would strike him. Only, Balthier stood passively – his muscles were stretched taut with the effort to hold back, but he _was_ holding back. As if he were waiting. For her, she realized – he was waiting for _her_. Oh, he had enjoyed terrorizing Raen, enjoyed putting the fear of the gods in him – but here was vengeance in the palm of his hand, and he did not want it for himself; he wanted it for _her_.

She took a moment to savor the situation: Raen humbled and cowering, his hands thrown up to shield his face, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His life was collapsing around him, and he wasn't yet fully aware of how thorough her revenge would be. He had no prospects, no income, no inheritance. His wife would soon be free of him. His emperor despised him. He would likely spend the rest of his days consigned to prison, and there would be no one to speak for him, no one to miss him.

Her feet carried her to Balthier's side, and his shoulders dropped into a more natural slope. "You certainly took your time," he said in a low voice.

"You seemed to be handling it well enough," she replied. They likely didn't have to speak so softly; Raen's piteous whimpers for mercy would have drowned out their voices.

Balthier grabbed her hand, closing it into a fist. "Thumb on the outside," he said. "You'll break it if you tuck it into your fingers. Now, strike with the first two knuckles, arm straight – aim for the nose; it's a smaller target, but the bone is weaker there. Anywhere else, and you're likely to hurt yourself just as badly as you hurt him."

A warm glow suffused her. Probably there were sweeter gestures than teaching someone to throw a decent punch – even if she _did_ already know quite well how to do so – but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been so moved. He was manipulating her arm, showing her the motion, but she didn't hear a word he was saying – he had had every reason to thrash Raen on his own. Instead, he'd essentially caught him and trussed him up just for her.

She could fall in love with him. It would be so _easy_. And quite likely _incredibly_ stupid.

"Have you got that?" His voice near her ear set off a betraying tremor.

"Yes," she managed. "Yes, I think so."

"Good." He let fall her arm and cleared his throat loudly, his voice scornful as he said to Raen, "Oh, come off it, you coward. I'm not going to hit you."

It took a moment for the words to sink into Raen's thick skull. He opened his eyes, slowly lowering his arms. For a moment he stared at Penelo blankly, as if he hadn't recognized her. Then, at last, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

Balthier gestured to her. " _She_ is."

Her cue. She drew back her arm, swinging so fast that Raen hadn't the chance to shield his face once again.

 _Crack_. There was the satisfying crunch of bones beneath her fist, and if her knuckles stung, it was worth it to hear the high-pitched squawk of pain Raen gave as he slumped against the tree trunk, covering his nose even as blood poured freely into his hands.

Behind her, Penelo heard Yulia's jubilant laughter, turned to see her doubled over with it, tears streaming down her cheeks. She shook out her fist, flexing her injured knuckles – they were scraped raw, but she'd had worse wounds. This one, at least, was satisfying; a lingering memory of revenge served. She let Balthier deal with Raen, who was hunkered down on the ground making pitiful noises, and instead returned to Yulia and Larsa.

"I'm sorry," she said, uncertain of her welcome – what Yulia must think of her. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, don't be," Yulia said tearfully. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her sleeves, then flung her arms around Penelo's neck in an exuberant embrace. "This is the most wonderful day of my life. If not for you, I might never have gotten rid of him – as it is, the emperor has agreed to expedite my divorce."

"Yulia will stay at the palace as my guest until her divorce is finalized," Larsa said. "And Asraen will be put under house arrest until I can sort out the financial mess he's gotten himself into, at which point he will be tried and sentenced." He flicked a hand at his attendant, Kinney, who leapt to do his bidding, scurrying across the grass towards a pair of guards lingering respectfully on the fringes of the lawn.

Penelo glanced back at Raen, who had curled into the fetal position, held immobile by Balthier's boot pressing down upon his side. "Everything he owns will be taken," she said. "There will be nothing left for Yulia."

"I will do what I can to safeguard what assets she brought to their marriage. I see no reason why she ought to be punished for his excesses," Larsa said.

Yulia dimpled. "I thank you, Your Majesty," she said. "That's very kind of you." She cast an ireful glare at her soon-to-be former husband and said to Penelo, "Do you know, I think it would be worth it to lose everything just to have had the chance to see you break his nose. I swear I've never laughed so hard. I've wanted to do that for _ages_."

There was the furious _clank_ of armor as the guards approached, and Balthier abandoned his position to give stewardship of Raen over to them. He acknowledged Larsa with a nod as he approached, and took Penelo's hand in his, examining the severity of the bruising, brushing his fingers over the scraped skin.

"Balthier," Larsa said. "Welcome back. Don't let me catch you pirating within the borders of Archadia."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Balthier said. He tucked Penelo's arm in his. "We ought to be going. That scrape needs tending." He sketched a salute and turned, directing Penelo back towards the cab that waited for them in the distance.

Larsa frowned, mistrusting Balthier's easy capitulation – Archadia was a prime target for sky-pirates, filled to the brim with merchants and noblemen and merchandise ripe for thieving. "I appreciate your consideration," he said. "One less pirate for me to worry about."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Balthier tossed over his shoulder. "I meant I wouldn't dream of being _caught_."

Larsa's inarticulate sound of fury and Yulia's delighted laughter echoed on the breeze, chasing them all the way back to the waiting cab.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Penelo asked, staring out the window of the cab. "We passed the Aerodrome five minutes ago."

"My father's estate," Balthier said. "Do you know, I've never seen the inside – I wonder what it's like."

The cab took a left, veering off the main road onto a winding cobblestone drive. The sun peeked through the trees lining either side, dappling the road with shafts of sunlight. Penelo tried to imagine the sense of wonder he might've experienced as young boy, traveling this drive with his father – only to be cruelly ejected at the door.

The cab slowed before a stately manor house, three stories tall and lined with rows and rows of gleaming windows. Three steps rose from the ground to the main entrance, the huge double doors polished to a high shine.

"My solicitor ought to have told them I was coming round," he said.

"Told who?" she asked, as she stepped out of the cab.

"The staff," he said. "A household this large requires one."

They climbed the steps, but even as Balthier raised his hand to knock upon the door, it was swinging open before them. A butler, clad in a proper black suit, opened the door and backed away, permitting them entrance.

"Sir," he said. "Welcome. We've been expecting you." There was nothing in his tone to suggest even the mildest of disrespect, but Penelo wondered whether or not his former mistress' vitriol had had any impact on what he must think of his new employer.

"Thank you," Balthier said. "You can leave off the 'sir,' I think. I don't believe it suits me."

"Of course, sir," The butler replied, much to Balthier's consternation. "I am Prestwick; I have the privilege of overseeing the downstairs staff. Shall I assemble them for introductions?"

"That won't be necessary," Balthier said. "We won't be staying long. I only want to have a look about."

"A tour, then?" Prestwick suggested.

"No – we'll manage well enough on our own. By all means, you may return to your duties."

Prestwick sketched a bow and turned to go, but there was a tension lingering at the corners of his mouth – not disapproval, but something rather like fear, Penelo thought. A suspicion formed in her mind – she, too, had experienced uncertainty. Well enough, certainly, to detect it in someone else.

Their footsteps echoed in the large, airy foyer, the _click_ of boots on marble floors a sharp staccato. It branched off into a network of smaller rooms, a labyrinthine tangle of hallways and corridors stretching through the main wing of the massive house.

"How many people work here?" Penelo asked.

"A house of this size? Perhaps fifty or so," he replied. "I don't know the specifics; I only know that they command an outrageous salary."

"But you can afford it, can't you?" she asked. "I mean – you've been paying it for years already, haven't you? Every time she wrote to demand funds?"

"I suppose I have," he said. "I do have the finances to support them."

"Then you could a while longer, couldn't you? At least until they can find new positions?" She twisted her fingers together, worrying her lower lip.

He turned, baffled. "Whatever is the matter?" he asked.

"I think they're afraid," she said. "Or at least Prestwick is. They probably think they're going to be turned out, and who knows when or where they'll be able to find a new position, or if it will pay so well." She moved closer, reached out to touch his sleeve. "I've been there before," she said. "After my parents died. Not knowing what was to become of me." She hesitated half a second, and then forged ahead. "You've been there, too."

He had; he well remembered the crushing disorientation after his mother had passed, the sense of chaos that had surrounded him until his father had arrived. And he sighed. "Your bleeding heart is going to beggar me eventually," he said.

She brightened at once, the smile that burst across her face blinding in its intensity. "You'll keep them? Even if you don't intend to stay here?"

"I suppose I could see my way to keeping on a skeleton staff. It's not unheard of." He folded his arms across his chest. "Though a skeleton staff of _fifty_ will be deemed overblown by anyone's standards."

"Not to me," she said. "I think it sounds perfect." Over Balthier's shoulder, she saw a little black-frocked maid peering at them from another room, eavesdropping as subtly as she could manage. As soon as she realized that she had been seen, the maid let out a tiny squeak and scurried away. Penelo hoped it would be to spread the news of what she'd overheard.

Balthier cast his gaze about, searching for the source of the noise. "What the devil was that?"

"Nothing," Penelo said. "Probably just a mouse."

* * *

"I know it's not good manners to speak ill of the dead," Penelo said, "but good gods, she was a sour-faced hag." They were staring up at the massive portrait of who she assumed must be the deceased woman that hung above the fireplace in the formal sitting room. The dour lady seemed to glare down at them, her sharp eyes rendered in narrowed slits, her cheeks hollowed and lips pinched as if she had just bitten into something exceptionally bitter.

"I only saw her alive once," Balthier replied. "But I think perhaps that portrait is a bit more flattering than she rightly deserved. Quite honestly, I remembered her as a dragon – fire-breathing and all."

Under the watchful, disapproving eye of the manor's former resident, Penelo dragged her fingertip along the mantle of the fireplace. The servants were thorough; there wasn't a speck of dust to be found.

"I think you're rather lucky not to have grown up here," she said, glancing around the room. "It's so cold. Sterile." Much like its former mistress, the house was bereft of life. It was unbearably austere, with no inclinations toward frivolity or gaiety or anything that would have softened the harsh, rigid furniture and the perfectly correct decorations.

"Given the fact that both of my father's legitimate sons lost their lives young – no doubt having learned their vices at his knee – I'm tempted to agree." He stroked his chin, studying the portrait. "Do you think we ought to burn it?"

"Oh, no – that's far too kind. You could just lock her away in the attic; she'd have nothing to frown at up there," Penelo suggested.

"Yes, but she'd likely scare the aprons off the maids whenever they ventured up there," Balthier responded, and they both chuckled at the idea.

There was a strange sound from a nearby room, and shortly thereafter Prestwick appeared, accompanied by a maid wheeling a small cart atop which rested a silver tea service and several platters of tiny cakes, cookies, and finger sandwiches. Penelo supposed that the tiny glimpses of movement she'd caught every so often from an outlying room had been the staff keeping track of them.

Prestwick cleared his throat. "Sir, I've taken the liberty of ordering refreshments. Shall I have Lottie pour?" He gestured to the maid at his side, and she gave a shy smile and bobbed a hasty curtsey.

Balthier had been about to refuse, but Penelo had already drifted across the room to examine the cart and greet the maid. He reconciled himself to weak tea and flavorless finger foods with a sigh.

"Just Penelo," she was saying to the maid, who nodded along with an expression of acute surprise. "I've never gone by anything else. No 'miss,' it's too much bother."

The maid parceled out sweets, sandwiches, and tiny porcelain tea cups with a practiced hand, and Balthier accepted them with reluctance. But a hesitant sip of the tea revealed that it was smooth and rich, and the wafer-thin cookie was still warm from the oven, crispy and scented with lemon. Definitely a cut above what he had expected.

"Will you tell me about her?" Penelo waved her hand to indicate the gargantuan portrait of the woman who glared down at them as if infuriated that they dared defile her sitting room with their presence.

Prestwick hesitated, conflicted. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of his answer, and closed it again.

As if the overwhelming silence had goaded her into action, Lottie said in a rush, "She was a right old witch!" Then she gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth, flushing furiously.

Penelo tipped back her head and laughed. Balthier choked on his tea biscuit and gulped down a mouthful of tea to clear the crumbs from his throat. But Penelo's merriment had eased the tension, and even Prestwick unbent enough to allow himself a snicker or two.

"She was…difficult," Prestwick said diplomatically.

"I'll bet she was," Balthier said. "A miserable old harridan, by all accounts."

There was another round of laughter, and Penelo was pleased to see that the last of that wretched uncertainty had faded from Prestwick's face.

"If you'll pardon us, sir," Prestwick said, "we shall leave you to your exploration. Dinner will be served in an hour; I will send a maid to fetch you then. You may expect your bedchambers to be prepared thereafter – although, of course, I hope you will continue to explore as you please."

"Oh, we won't –" Balthier began, but Penelo cleared her throat and placed her hand on his arm.

She leaned up to whisper at his ear, "They're trying to impress you – can't you let them, just for one night?"

Putty in her hands – it was truly a tragedy. If she ever figured it out, he was done for. And somehow he managed a bland approximation of a smile and said to Prestwick, "That sounds wonderful."


	21. Chapter 21

Penelo was fairly certain that if she were to ask Balthier to jump off a bridge, he would simply ask her which bridge she had in mind. He had, in the space of an afternoon, acquiesced to her every request without even the hint of an argument. He'd agreed to continue to employ _fifty_ people he might see on average once or twice a year just because she had asked it of him.

She had expected at least abit of resistance, and at most a grace period of a month or two while the servants sought other positions. But he had agreed to keep them on _without_ condition, prepared to support the livelihoods of so many people indefinitely.

He had not expressed this to them, but Penelo was sure that the eavesdropping maid had indeed seen to it that the news spread like wildfire. The staff had been perhaps overly attentive, eager to serve any need before it could even be conceived of – much less voiced. And Balthier had seemed, for the first time that she could recall, a bit out of his element with so many people hanging on his every word and focusing all of their attention on him.

But he had suffered it well enough, and at the very least he had seemed to enjoy dinner – though most especially he had enjoyed the moment when Prestwick had informed him that he was now the owner of an extensive and extremely valuable collection of wine awaiting his inspection in the wine cellar.

They hadn't even made it through half of the house before it had gone past time to retire for the evening. She was almost certain that the purpose of their trip here had been about little more than his desire to thumb his nose at his father's wife – to revel in that which had been denied to him in his youth. But she wondered if his curiosity might've been piqued enough to merit further exploration in the morning. It was one thing to see one's possessions itemized on a sheet of paper and quite another to hold them in your hands.

And she…she wanted him to have the opportunity to do so; to take ownership of everything that should have been his all along. To reclaim the home that should have been his, to make his own mark on it and scrub out the taint of malice that lingered. It might even prove cathartic – there had been a few moments during the evening when she had seen shadows of the past shading his eyes, the haunting image of the boy he'd once been peering out through them. He was still outside looking in, and he didn't have to be any longer.

He deserved the home and the family that had been denied him as a child. Perhaps when the ghosts that stalked the empty halls of the house had been exorcised, he would have healed enough to find those things.

* * *

Balthier tossed restlessly in his bed, staring up at the gilt-accented ceiling, waiting for the soft sound of footsteps to fade from the hallway. That was one of the pitfalls in owning a house so overrun with servants; one could reliably expect that there would always be one of them about.

Inconvenient, as Prestwick had placed Penelo in a separate room. He had been prepared to argue that, when Prestwick had shown her to hers – but she'd cleared her throat with a subtle shake of her head just as he had opened his mouth to protest, making it clear she did not wish to be embarrassed in front of the servants.

Seven doors separated them; he'd counted carefully. And now he was obliged to wait until the household settled, until he could slip out the door and down the hall unobserved.

It was a strange thing, how quickly he had acclimated to her sleeping beside him; his bed was cold and lonely without her. He missed the pressure of her head notched against his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin. He missed her arm draped over him, missed her legs entangling with his – he even missed her tendency to warm her cold toes on his calves.

He missed _her_.

Blast it all – enough was _enough_. He thrust back the blankets, grabbed his trousers from the chair he'd tossed them in and pulled them on with rough impatience. The well-oiled hinges of the door gave not the slighted creak as he eased it open, peering out into the corridor to scan for any lingering servants.

The hall was deserted. Light fixtures affixed to the walls had been turned low, draping the hall in clinging shadows. The lush carpeting beneath his bare feet betrayed only a whisper of sound, and he crept down the hall slowly, keeping to the center of the hall where the shadows were thickest. He counted off the doors as he passed them, and breathed a sigh of relief as he made it to Penelo's room unseen.

The knob gave easily beneath his hand, and he slipped inside without a sound, twisting the lock as he closed the door behind him. In the darkness he could only see the vague outline of the bed, and he moved quietly toward it, feeling for the edge of the blanket so that he could slip beneath it.

He heard the whisper of her skin sliding across the sheets as she turned, giving a sleepy murmur of welcome. She was warm and pliant, and as he slipped his arm beneath her, she shifted to tuck her head against his shoulder just as he had grown accustomed to.

"Did I wake you?" He pressed the words into the soft tangle of her hair.

"Mm, just a bit," she said on a yawn. "These sheets are silk – d'you think all the sheets in this house are silk?"

"With what I have spent on maintaining it for the last several years, they had damn well better be."

Her laugh was muffled against his shoulder. She traced an idle pattern across his chest, delicate whorls with just the tips of her fingers stretching out into smooth strokes with her whole hand, until she was petting him like a cat.

"I thought for sure you weren't coming," she said at last. "It got so late."

"At first, I waited for the staff to settle for the night so as not to be caught in the corridor. And then I grew tired of waiting." He managed a one-shouldered shrug, careful not to jostle her about. "It's my damned house, after all – I'm at liberty to sleep wherever I please."

"There's got to be at least fifty rooms in this house," she said. "You didn't _have_ to choose _mine_."

"Ah, but I'm the master of the house, and as such, I'm entitled to the best. All the other rooms were inferior." He was going to have to purchase a set of silk sheets for the _Strahl_. He was indifferent to them, but Penelo liked them very much indeed – she kept sliding her legs across them, enjoying the sensation of the slippery silk against her skin.

"Oh? You inspected all the other rooms?" she asked, doubtfully.

"I didn't need to." He caught her hand and arranged her arm to drape across his chest as he liked it, and swept his free hand down the smooth slope of her back so that she nestled closer to his side. "I knew _you_ weren't in any of them."

From anyone else, it would have sounded like a line. But he had no need of them; he wasn't trying to lure her into bed with him – _he'd_ already gone and crawled in with _her_. His right arm tucked around her, his fingers curved over her hip. His left arm bracketed hers across his chest, his palm cupping her elbow to hold her in place. She felt the swift rise and fall of his chest on a deep, satisfied exhale. For all appearances, he was on the very verge of falling asleep.

So he'd woken her for no reason other than to take up space in her bed? Irked, she draped her leg over his, only slightly mollified when he shifted to accommodate her. And yet, nothing – he _truly_ just intended to sleep. She slid her knee up, gliding her leg along his thigh.

His breath hitched in his chest; his fingers contracted on her hip. Feigning a scandalized tone, he said, "You wicked girl – what in the world do you think you're doing?"

"Well…there _was_ a funeral today. I thought you might be in need of consolation?" she offered.

A laugh rumbled in his chest. He half-turned, readjusting to slide his arms around her, nudging his knee between hers. "May it be on your head, then," he said, scraping her hair aside to drop a row of kisses along the curve of her throat.

"May _what_ be on my head?" she asked.

But he was nibbling on her earlobe, and his fingers were sliding down her belly, and she almost didn't hear him when he murmured, "I _was_ trying to be considerate. So let it be on _you_ to make explanations to the staff when you bring them running."

She managed a shaky laugh. "I'm not _that_ loud, surely."

He braced himself on his forearms and pulled away just a bit, arching a brow as he smiled down at her in patronizing affection. "You'll have your answer soon enough."

* * *

"Would you _hurry_?"

Balthier suppressed a snicker as Penelo paced fretfully before the door, knitting her fingers together. The sun was newly risen, but she was already dressed and ready to depart. In her mad scramble to escape the house before the majority of the servants had taken up their posts, she had all but shoved him out of bed, thrusting his bundled clothing at him. Apparently she had made a pre-dawn search of the surrounding rooms in order to locate the rest of his clothing.

"I thought you wished to explore the rest of the house," he said, in as innocent a tone as he could manage, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

She tugged a hank of her hair over her shoulder, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "We've probably seen most of it. I'm sure we have."

"Darling, we've not set foot in the east wing yet," he said. "And there's the wine cellar, yet, besides – perhaps I'd better summon Prestwick for a tour."

"No!" she gasped, her cheeks heating as she turned on him in horror – which faded into fury the moment she realized he was laughing at her. A sound of aggravation scraped out of her throat; she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. "You are _such_ an ass."

He shrugged into his vest, working the togs as he crossed the room to approach her. "I _did_ warn you," he said. "Servants of his caliber are trained to come running at the slightest sound – and you, darling, do nothing by halves." He bussed a kiss to her forehead. "Although I quite enjoyed seeing you stammer over an explanation wearing nothing but a sheet."

"He had a key," she grumbled. "I didn't have timeto dress." Hopefully, she glanced up at him. "Do you think he believed me?" She'd managed to cobble together a spur-of-the-moment excuse, claiming occasional nightmares.

He chuckled. "No," he said. "I can assure you that he did not, though he would never be so uncouth as tell you so." He caught her shoulders, gently reorienting her to face the oval mirror hanging on the wall beside the door, and he drew one finger down her throat, pointing out the love bite just above her collar.

She drew a swift, infuriated breath. "You did that on purpose!"

He _had_ , actually, but she hadn't seemed to mind very much at the time. Clearly she was of the opinion that what passed in the night ought leave no reminders come the cold light of morning.

Frowning, she rubbed her fingers over the mark as if it might scrub away beneath the pressure. "Maybe he didn't notice," she said.

"A butler, in a household like this one? He's _trained_ to notice such things." Poor dear; he sincerely doubted she was ever going to be able to look Prestwick in the eyes again.

She made a dismayed sound, her lips compressing into a firm line as she narrowed her eyes at him, and he foresaw a lecture in his not-too-distant future if he did not tread lightly.

"For the gods' sake, Balthier – how long does it take you to dress?" she huffed.

"I'm nearly done," he said, as he buttoned his cuffs. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "Imagine – sneaking out of my own house like a thief in the night."

She rounded on him with a glare. "If _you_ hadn't crawled into _my_ bed, it wouldn't be necessary!"

She was really quite beautiful when she was in a temper; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed – though he didn't expect that she would appreciate such an observation at the moment. "Need I remind you that _you_ were the instigator? I would have been perfectly content simply to sleep."

For a moment she fell silent, her brows drawn together, pensive. "Why?" she asked at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

" _Why_?" she repeated. "That's – that a bit strange, isn't it?" She had gone back to knotting her fingers again, and chewing on her lower lip nervously. "I mean, why would you come to my bed just to sleep? Isn't that a little…strange?"

She was afraid, he realized abruptly. Afraid that he would give her an answer she was ill-equipped to handle, one she wasn't prepared to contend with just yet. A sliver of disappointment pierced him, but he forced it down and countered her question with deliberate nonchalance. "Not particularly," he said, turning to face the mirror, running his fingers through his hair to scrape it into some semblance of order. "I've simply grown used to your presence, and this house is damned drafty."

He didn't miss her relieved exhale, and fought to stifle a wince. It was only natural for her to be gun-shy, given her history – but telling himself that did little for his bruised ego.

Awkwardly she cleared her throat. "We really should get going," she said at last, turning towards the door. Before she could reach for the handle, there was a sharp rap on the door, and she leapt back, startled. "Oh, no," she whispered, backing away.

He coughed to disguise a laugh; the horror on her face was priceless.

"The window," she gasped, in a burst of inspiration.

"Oh, come, now," he chided. "Surely you're not serious." But she had already zipped across the floor, and was occupied with twisting the latches and shoving up the heavy pane.

"Miss? Will you be wanting breakfast?" A maid's voice, muffled by the thick wooden door.

Penelo had already slung one leg over the sill, gesturing frantically for Balthier to follow as she climbed over and ducked out of sight, and the rapid patter of retreating footsteps rose through the window. Balthier pressed his fingers to his forehead, heaving a sigh of exasperation. She'd likely be halfway down the drive before he caught up with her.

The poor maid still knocked, waiting to be admitted. He took pity on her and opened the door himself. "Lottie, isn't it?" he asked the startled maid. "You needn't concern yourself with us," he said. "No breakfast necessary. We're just leaving."

"Oh," she said. "I'll fetch Prestwick, sir – he'll want to give you a proper send off."

He coughed into his fist. "That won't be necessary. It's going to be a rather unconventional exit," he said, holding the door wide enough to reveal the open window.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, I see." But her brows furrowed, and her lips pursed as she eyed him askance, clearly doubting his sanity. "Good day to you, then, sir."

And Balthier closed the door again with an aggrieved sigh and headed for the window.

He caught up to her on the main thoroughfare, just outside the gates. "I hope you're happy," he said. "By now I'm certain they all think I've gone completely mad, sneaking out of windows when there are perfectly serviceable doors about." A sharp wave summoned a cab; it veered toward them, pulling to a halt at the curb.

She had the good grace to give him a sheepish smile as she climbed into the cab, sliding across the seat to free up a space for him. "I'm sorry," she said. "You probably think I'm an incurable coward."

"Not _incurable_ ," he said. "But you are a bit…straight-laced, perhaps. I have every confidence that you will outgrow it in time."

She shot him a baffled glance, uncertain of his meaning.

"Destination?" the driver asked.

"The Aerodrome," he said.

She touched his sleeve. "No, please – before we leave, I'd like to visit with Larsa."

He sighed. "Is that really necessary? I don't relish the thought of a lecture on the perils of piracy from a boy ten years my junior."

"Destination?" the driver asked again, his voice tinged with impatience.

And Balthier made a fatal mistake: he looked at Penelo. Blast it, she had figured him out somehow – she cast those big eyes up at him, wide and guileless, just the hint of a plea in them. Her lower lip thrust out in an entreating pout; her fingers curled upon his sleeve in mute appeal.

"The palace," he heard himself gritting out to the driver. The cab lurched into motion, pulling away from the curb and out into the rush of traffic, and Penelo released her thrall on him, settling back into her seat with a satisfied little wiggle.

"Thank you," she said. "I asked a lot of Larsa yesterday; I think I owe him a bit of an explanation. And I think I'd like to see how Yulia is getting along."

Balthier stewed in his irritation, resigning himself to losing every battle with her for the foreseeable future. "It's early yet," he said, "We'll likely be turned away at the gate. Aside from which, Yulia is safely ensconced within the palace – what could possibly have gone wrong?"

* * *

Contrary to Balthier's expectation, they weren't only admitted to the palace despite the early hour, but they were in fact rushed through a maze of corridors directly to Larsa's private sitting room. It was as if the entire staff had breathed a sigh of relief at their arrival.

"Thank the gods you've come," the harried maid tossed over her shoulder. "They're going to kill each other, I just know it."

Penelo cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder at Balthier, but he only shrugged, as lost as she.

In the distance, there rose a commotion – a steady rumble of sound that coalesced into a roar, punctuated by the shattering of china. The maid cringed, wringing her hands.

"He's been asking after you, miss," she said. "He was all kind and polite, up until His Majesty said he didn't know where you were. Can't take 'no' for an answer, that one." She had to raise her voice to compete with the din, and though the words from within were muffled through the thick walls, Penelo knew very well the voice.

 _Vaan_.

She froze, torn between fight and flight, steadied only by the gentle pressure of Balthier's palm upon the small of her back. He had recognized Vaan's voice, too, it seemed, for he bent to murmur at her ear, "Might as well get it over with, hm?"

It might be for the best in the long run, but it was a conflict she neither wanted nor needed at the moment, and anxiety knotted in her stomach. It was too late to run; the maid was flinging open the doors, and the muffled words from within instead rang clear as crystal.

In the midst of the chaos, only two of the room's four occupants had noticed the doors opening, and Penelo's surprised gaze flitted to each of them in turn, arrested by the scene playing out.

Vaan faced Larsa, who was placidly sipping from a tiny porcelain teacup. "Don't give me that; you're the godsdamned emperor – you know _everything_!"

"How dare you speak to him in that tone of voice!" Yulia plunked her fists on her hips, fixing Vaan with an icy glare.

"What're _you_ going to do about it – throw another cup at me? You couldn't even hit me the first time!" Vaan sneered.

"I wasn't aiming for you, you ill-mannered lout! I assure you, had I wished to hit you, I would have done!" Yulia eyed the remaining parts of the tea service resting on the low table between them as if sizing up future projectiles.

So _Yulia_ had been responsible for the crash earlier? Oh – the mysterious _they_ to which the maid had referred hadn't been Vaan and _Larsa_ , but Vaan and _Yulia_.Penelo found herself impressed.

Fran sat upon a sofa, thoroughly disenchanted with the animosity flying about the room. She made a gesture towards Balthier and Penelo that might've been welcome, but could just as easily have been warning to flee while the opportunity was available.

Larsa set down his cup. "Ahh, Penelo, Balthier – good of you to join us. As you can see, we are having a…minor disagreement."

Vaan's head whipped around, his face gone dark as a thundercloud. "Where the hell have you been?" he snapped at her. "And _you_ –" He made it only three steps toward Balthier before Fran snagged him by the collar and flung him unceremoniously onto the sofa.

"Have you learned nothing?" she chided. "Do not start brawls that you have no hope of winning."

Yulia's face had flushed an alarming shade of red upon coming to the realization that she had been overheard shouting like a harpy; she squeaked out a welcome and sank into her own chair, folding her hands in her lap.

"Would you care for tea?" Larsa offered. "We, er, seem to be down a cup, but I can ring for more."

Yulia grew redder still, looking for all the world as if she wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear. She ducked her head to hide her face, tugging nervously at her sleeves. For the first time, Penelo noticed that the gown Yulia wore was quite old – the elaborate embroidery wasn't a part of its initial design, but rather a clever camouflage to disguise the fact that it had been patched and repatched over and over to prolong its use. Raen had always worn the best that money could buy, but it seemed he didn't feel the need to keep his wife in a similar style. Yulia had been left to fend for herself, just as Penelo had.

"No need," Vaan said in a clipped tone. "We're leaving. Come on, Pen." He shoved himself off the sofa, readjusting his vest.

Even as Penelo opened her mouth to refuse, Balthier slung his arm about her waist to draw her closer to his side and said firmly, " _No_." Penelo cast him an ireful glare.

"Excuse me?" Vaan growled.

"I said _no_ ," Balthier said. "She's staying. You don't speak for her."

" _You_ don't either!"

Penelo shrugged out of Balthier's hold, agilely evading his grasp even as he reached for her. " _Neither_ of you speak for me," she snapped. "Good gods – what's gotten into the both of you?" She retreated a safe distance to stand beside Fran, her self-righteous pique earning her a consoling pat on the shoulder from the older woman.

"Men," Yulia sniffed disdainfully, casting Penelo a sympathetic look in the solidarity of sisterhood, or perhaps simply out of loyalty to Penelo for having rescued her from a disastrous marriage. "Always blundering about, heedless of anyone's interests but their own. Well, I would prefer not to bear witness to a brawl if it is all the same to you." She rose to her feet, shaking out her skirts, fixing Balthier and Vaan with a contemptuous look. "Perhaps if you could have simply _asked_ , instead of…of making dictatorial decrees, it would have elicited a more favorable response." She waved a hand to indicate Penelo, who scowled at both men, her fury scrawled across her face, searing the air.

Balthier, at least, realized that he had made a critical error. "Darling, I didn't intend…"

" _Darling_?" Vaan hissed in a scathing voice. "You _bastard._ If you've so much as _touched_ her –"

Penelo made an ugly sound of rage in her throat, throwing up her hands in disgust as she stalked toward the door. "Go on, then, and kill each other. I don't give a damn, and I'm sure as hell not sticking around for it either. Yulia, do you mind if join you?"

"I'd be delighted." Yulia dimpled at Penelo, scurrying across the room toward her.

"Fran, will you come as well?" Penelo asked.

Fran cast Balthier a vaguely pitying glance, shaking her head in silent rebuke. "Blood is so difficult to remove from one's clothing," she sighed. "I suppose I should prefer to remove myself from the line of fire."

Larsa heaved a sigh, massaging his temples. "Where are you going?" he asked, clearly wearied of the morning's dramatics, "And what I am to do with these two in the meantime?"

Penelo gave a casual shrug. "Bury the loser; imprison the winner on murder charges. It makes no difference to me. We're going shopping; I'll return Yulia when we're through."

"You can't just _leave_ ," Vaan grumbled, oblivious to the steel-stiffness of Penelo's spine, the irritation that had her clenching her fists at her sides.

" _Watch_ me," she snarled. And she turned on her heel and stomped out of the room, the furious click of her boots on the tile breaking the overwhelming silence. Yulia and Fran followed swiftly on her heels.

Balthier blocked the door before Vaan could charge off after them. "Let her go," he said. "She'll be back. Best if we let her calm down a touch; she'll not be pleased to have her wishes disregarded again."

"Oh, like you know her _so_ well," Vaan sneered.

"I do, actually," Balthier replied. "Better than you, that much is certain. You might have known her longer, but you haven't seen her in three years. She's not the same girl you knew. She won't blindly follow on your command any longer – and if you continue to push her, you will lose her."

" _I'll_ lose her?" Vaan scoffed. "You think you _won't_?"

Balthier considered for a moment the raw fury that had burned in her eyes just moments ago, the anxiety with which she had questioned his intentions earlier in the morning. He managed a self-deprecating chuckle, and he said at last, "I never had her to lose."


	22. Chapter 22

The worst of her anger had fled upon escaping the palace, stripped away by the cool breeze that blew across the courtyard, scenting the air with jasmine.

"An admirable lift," Fran said, pausing at Penelo's side. "You've improved a great deal."

Penelo pursed her lips in disappointment. "Not so admirable, then, if it was noticed," she said on a gusty sigh.

" _I_ noticed," Fran said. " _He_ did not."

Yulia scurried out the massive doors of the palace, a bit out of breath by having tried her level best to keep up with both Fran's long-legged stride and Penelo's furious, blistering pace, hindered by the heavy skirts of her gown.

"I beg your pardon," she said breathlessly, "I should have said, except that we were too busy storming out – which was quite fun, by the way – but I don't have any money."

"Neither do I, but don't worry about it." Penelo slipped her hand into her pocket and fished out a leather pocketbook, clearly made for a man. "This shopping trip will be courtesy of Balthier." She flashed Fran an impish grin. "Think he'll be mad?"

"Do you know," Fran said thoughtfully, "I rather think he will be proud."

* * *

"That cheeky little –" Balthier patted at his pockets in patent disbelief. "She stole my damned pocketbook!" He sank back into the chair that Yulia had recently vacated, stunned. "And here I was, wondering exactly how she planned to shop with no money to speak of."

Vaan guffawed. "I can't believe it – she picked your pocket and you didn't even notice."

He hadn't. "She's good," he said. "She's _really_ good." And he couldn't suppress the stupid grin that spread across his face. He had thought, he had _truly_ thought for a moment there that he had unwittingly ruined everything. But…she had taken his money. She, who had resisted his financial support at every turn, had helped herself to his pocketbook.

It might have been just a bit of petty revenge, but she would never have done _anything_ that she suspected might be held over her head in the future. No; she might be irritated, even furious – but she would forgive him. Provided he demonstrated that he had repented of his sins, of course.

Larsa cleared his throat. "May I summon a maid to clear away the broken china, or shall I wait until after the brawl? If you might see your way to steering clear of the table, there – it's an antique; it's seen my family through seven generations."

"There's not going to be a brawl," Balthier said. " _Is_ there, Vaan?"

Vaan folded his arms over his chest with a huff, hedging, "Had to turn my weapons over when I came in," he said. "I'm not fool enough to fight without them."

"I thought as much," Balthier said. "You might as well have a seat; we've got to come to some sort of accord, or Penelo will most likely bash both of our heads in."

" _Penelo_?" Vaan echoed. "Nah – she doesn't have it in her."

"I beg to differ," Larsa said. "Just yesterday, she quite gleefully broke a man's nose. Not that it wasn't entirely merited, but…" He shrugged.

"As I said before," Balthier said to Vaan. "She is _not_ the same girl you knew. We can't keep vying for her attention as if we are squabbling over ownership of a toy. She doesn't deserve that sort of treatment."

Vaan dropped onto the sofa, his mouth compressed into a thin line. "You really do…care about her, don't you?" he asked.

"I do." Balthier braced his forearms on his knees. "I swear to you, she was with me of her own free will. It was at her request that she stayed aboard the _Strahl_ , at her request that I did not inform you that she had been recovered."

Vaan blew out a breath. "She said, but…I didn't believe her."

"She said?" Balthier's brows drew together. "When did she say?"

"She called a few days ago, wanted to talk to Fran." Vaan raked his fingers through his hair. "That's how we ended up here – I heard the Aerodrome announcements over the line, and so I knew you were in Archades. Hightailed it here as fast as I could, considering I had no idea whether you were coming or going."

The night they'd arrived – the night he'd returned to find her slumped over the kitchen bar, having downed an entire bottle of wine. Which she had thereafter been reluctant to discuss.

"What did she and Fran speak of?" he asked.

"Dunno," Vaan said. "She said it was private – and then Fran tossed me in my room and wedged a chair under the doorknob."

"Damn," Balthier muttered. "She never told me." Which boded ill; whatever she and Fran had discussed had _not_ been something she was prepared to share with him…and Fran might've told her any number of things that could have made her skittish.

Her anxious face as she had knotted her fingers and asked in a halting voice, _Isn't that a little…strange?_ Fran had told her _something_ , without a doubt – something that had provoked a crisis of uncertainty.

"How do you suggest we settle this?" Vaan asked.

Balthier sighed. "Not _us_ ," he said. "Penelo. It's her choice. We shall simply have to abide by it."

* * *

"Oh. Oh, no, I couldn't," Yulia said, shaking her head firmly. "I've never worn trousers in my life. It isn't done." But she stared at the trousers almost covetously, her words more lip-service to propriety than genuine refusal.

Fran and Penelo exchanged glances. "Why not?" Penelo asked, baffled. "They're comfortable – far more comfortable than gowns."

"My father would have fits!" Yulia's hands fisted in the folds of her gown as if to prevent herself from reaching for the set of trousers that Penelo held aloft. "I'm shaming him enough with my divorce; _those_ would be adding insult to injury."

Her father would be shamed by his daughter's divorce from an abusive, pathetic excuse for a man? Penelo bit her tongue in a valiant effort to swallow down the cutting response she might've given, and instead asked, "Did you tell him what sort of man Raen is? Did he ever try to help you?"

Yulia choked on a bitter laugh. "You must understand – I'm the eldest of six girls. _Six_. It's the work of my father's life trying to get all of us off of his hands." She splayed out her hands entreatingly. "His advice was that a wife ought to be lead by her husband, and it's not her place to question him."

"Even if he is leading the both of them into certain ruin?" Penelo scoffed. "I think you ought to lead _yourself_. What good has letting a man rule over you ever done for you?"

For a moment Yulia considered that in perfect silence, her lips pursed as though she'd bitten into something sour. And then she erupted into a flurry of motion. "Give me those," she said at last, practically snatching the trousers from Penelo's hands as she rushed past her into a dressing room.

Penelo flashed a triumphant grin at Fran and called out to Yulia, "You'll need a blouse – what size should I fetch for you?"

"I haven't the faintest – I've never worn one," Yulia responded. There was the distinctive rustle of heavy fabric as she shed the dress, coupled with an awkward banging as she tugged off her shoes and attempted to wrestle on the trousers.

Penelo scoured the racks of clothes, sorting through tops until she found a lovely lavender blouse that promised to pair nicely with the cream-colored trousers. She checked the size, figured it would be close enough, and tossed it over the dressing room door. Yulia squawked as it hit her. More rustling; the voluminous skirt of the discarded dress slipped out from the crack beneath the door.

"Are these supposed to be this _tight_?" Yulia asked doubtfully.

"The blouse or the pants?" Penelo called back.

"The trousers."

"Yes," Penelo and Fran said in unison.

"They're _indecent_." Her voice was imbued with scandalized delight.

"Good. Let's have a look, then." Since Yulia had not complained of the fit of the blouse, Penelo busied herself with collecting an assortment of similar blouses in the same size, draping them over her arm as she moved amongst the racks. Balthier's pocketbook was going to feel the sting from this excursion.

The dressing room door creaked open, and Yulia poked her head out with a grimace. Her amber hair was mussed from having pulled the blouse on over her head. "I feel rather naked," she said, her cheeks burning. She crept into the room hesitantly, as if she feared she might be shooed right back into the dressing room.

The clothes fit her well, despite the fact that she wore them uncomfortably. She walked with a lady's mincing steps, the sort that were designed to make a gown float across the ground – and that wouldn't do for the purpose of _these_ clothes.

"But for the lack of confidence, you look nearly piratical," Fran said.

A silly smile spread across Yulia's face; she clasped her hands before her in glee. "Do you really think so? That sounds _wonderful_. Is it terribly exciting? Pirating, I mean."

"Often." Penelo dumped the blouses she'd acquired onto the counter and set about collecting sets of trousers in every color and style she could find. "It's not all drama and romance, though. It's dangerous and you do run the risk of getting intimately acquainted with the inside of a prison cell – or the business end of a pistol."

Yulia laughed. "I might as well have been imprisoned for years already. Do you know, I'm twenty-seven next week, and I've never set foot out of Archadia? I think I'd like to go exploring."

A nebulous idea began to form in Penelo's mind; she piled the trousers on top of the blouses and waved a hand at a chair, indicating that Yulia should sit. "What sorts of skills do you have?" she asked. "I assume you've had some sort of formal schooling."

"Oh, of course. All girls of good families go to finishing school in Archadia. I'm trained in all manner of things – singing, dancing, water colors, embroidery, deportment, and managing a household," Yulia said, folding her hands in her lap.

Fran disguised a snicker with a cough, casting an amused glance at Penelo. Perhaps they were all worthwhile endeavors for young ladies, but few of them would be of any use for a sky pirate.

Yulia cleared her throat. "I am also able to speak four languages passably, and was at the top of my class in marksmanship."

 _Better_. Penelo glanced at Fran. "You think we could get Vaan to take her on?"

"Vaan!" Yulia gasped. "Oh, no – no, no, no. That uncouth, obnoxious, ill-mannered –"

Fran held up a hand to stop the steady stream of invectives. "It has got to be Vaan," she said. "Balthier is spoken for, and he's far too enamored with Penelo to even consider taking on a protégé."

The blandly delivered words galvanized Penelo – her spine snapped straight and a hot flush swept into her face. "He's not _enamored_ with me," she snapped. "That's…that's ridiculous."

Yulia canted her head to the side, staring at Penelo in bewilderment. "Of course he is," she said. "I noticed it straight off. How could you not know?"

"I did tell you," Fran said. "I thought you had understood."

Maybe Fran _had_ told her, in her cryptic, roundabout sort of way – but Penelo had taken it to mean something different, with lesser implications. Perhaps she simply hadn't wanted to hear it. Perhaps she hadn't been _prepared_ to hear it. And when she had worked up the nerve to pose the leading question to Balthier, he had – well, he hadn't precisely _denied_ it, but he certainly hadn't confirmed it either.

"I only hope that someday I will find someone who looks at _me_ the way he looks at _you_ ," Yulia said on a sigh.

"How can you say that?" Penelo asked, shocked. "Aren't you the _least_ bit reluctant, after Raen?"

Yulia wrinkled her nose. "It was an arranged marriage," she said. "But…even if I _had_ loved him, I would like to think that I'm not the sort of person who would let the possibility of pain prevent me from moving on to better and brighter things."

Even Yulia was braver than she; Penelo felt a twinge of shame. "I wish I had a fraction of your courage," she muttered.

"You _must_ be joking. I'm terrified out of my wits." Yulia gave a nervous trill of laughter. "I'm surely about to be disowned, and most everyone I know will turn their backs on me. But even an uncertain future holds more promise than being stuck here as Asraen's wife, and so I will gladly take my chances." She reached out to pat Penelo's knee. "You ought to take yours."

How could she? How could she possibly? There was no certainty in it; only crushing doubt and fear. She didn't know how to see what Fran and Yulia had claimed to see in Balthier.

She said, "I think you're mistaken – he's just been kind, that's all. He's just letting me travel along out of courtesy, while I sort out what I want to do."

Fran made an inelegant sound, half amusement, half mockery. "And sharing a bed is simple courtesy, then?"

Yulia tittered behind her hands, her eyes alight with shock and interest, searching Penelo's red face for proof of Fran's accusation. "Oh, my," she said. "Well, I suppose it was only to be expected."

Mortified, Penelo hunched her shoulders. "It doesn't _mean_ anything," she muttered sulkily.

"Even if not to you, it surely means a great deal to _him_ ," Fran countered. "I have already meddled more than was wise, and yet I find I cannot keep my silence, so I will tell you this: he searched for you."

Penelo's brows drew together, perplexed. "Yes, of course – he found me, after all."

"You mistake my meaning," Fran said. "He knew the very week you turned up missing; he poured a fortune into the coffers of myriad private investigators in the hopes that one of them would locate you. For three years now, the first thing to come out of his mouth each morning has been ' _Any news?_ '" Fran cast her an indulgent glance. "Before your disappearance, he made discreet inquiries to see how you fared. And when those reports ceased to come, when the news came that you had gone missing – well, I have never seen a man brought so low."

Penelo's heart thudded in her chest so furiously she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Her knees wobbled; she took a careful seat on the upholstered bench opposite Yulia's chair. "He never said," she whispered. "Shouldn't he have said _something_?"

"No – and he will not. How could he, to a woman in your position?" Fran took a seat on the unoccupied part of the bench, turning towards Penelo. "If you wish to catch a butterfly, you cannot reach out and snatch at it, lest you damage its fragile wings. Instead, you collect the finest flowers you can manage, and you stand very still, and you hope that _it_ will come to _you_."

Penelo gasped as a rush of dizziness assailed her, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and she struggled to get in a full breath. Could it really all have been that simple? Had he really been bowing to her wishes in an effort to…to _catch_ her?

She thought of how easily he had acquiesced to her request for his assistance in evading Vaan, how he had upped the ante by enlisting Fran to keep Vaan otherwise occupied. How he had roped her into acting as his partner in Fran's absence, framing it as an opportunity to claw her way out of her dire financial straits. Not out of pity, then, had he fed her and clothed her and ferried her around the world. He had been currying favor, tempting her with the very thing she had wanted most – freedom.

He'd taken her adventuring in Rozarria and halfway across Ivalice again simply to let her play in the snow. He'd let her fly his beloved airship, and though he'd gone white in the face at her reckless piloting, he'd not said a single word in admonishment. He'd delivered her faithless former lover into her hands, helping to orchestrate Raen's downfall.

 _I chose you_.

Those three words, the ones that she had suspected were carefully chosen to twist the truth _had_ been – just not in the way she had thought. He had been quite careful with it, obscuring the truth just enough to bend it without breaking, so that it couldn't _quite_ be called a lie even if it couldn't _quite_ be called the truth, either. But what else could he have done? She had pressed and pressed, and he had given her the safest answer he could manage, one that might confuse her but was unlikely to send her fleeing.

He had been goaded into conflict with Vaan this morning, and she had resented the fact that he had spoken for her – but perhaps it _hadn't_ been strictly for her. Perhaps he had been speaking for himself as well. He didn'twant her to go. Quite possibly he had not seen their temporary partnership as quite so _temporary_ as she had.

Yulia was sniffling. She dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief that had been tucked into the bodice of her blouse. "I'm _not_ crying," she said defensively. "That would be ridiculous. But…but it really is quite lovely."

Penelo managed a half-hearted laugh. "You're a hopeless romantic," she accused.

Yulia tipped her nose in the air. "That's as may be," she said, "but you are a _fool_ if you let love slip through your fingers."

"I don't know that I'd call it _love_ ," Penelo said. _At least – not yet_. She slanted a glare at Fran. "And I'm not a damned butterfly."

Fran gave her an oblique smile in return. "Perhaps not any longer," she said. "But the question remains: will you allow yourself to be caught?"

* * *

Three hours later, having divested Balthier's pocketbook of the majority of its gil and gained armloads of bags for their troubles, they arrived back at the palace to be shown back into the sitting room, where Larsa, Balthier, and Vaan yet remained. The shattered teacup and the tea service had been removed instead to be replaced by a decanter of amber-colored liquor from which the men seemed to be imbibing rather freely.

Larsa choked on his liquor as Yulia sauntered in behind Fran and Penelo. He coughed to clear his throat and then at last managed to rasp, "Good gods, Yulia – what in the world are you wearing?"

Out of habit, Yulia attempted a curtsey, made awkward by the fact that she had no skirts to grasp. She recovered well enough, saying brightly, "I thank you for your efforts on my behalf, Your Majesty. I shall be very pleased to acquire my divorce. But you needn't worry about housing me – I've decided to become a sky pirate."

"Ha!" Vaan snorted. "You? You're useless. _Worse_ than useless – you're a _lady_."

"I'm not hearing this." Larsa rubbed at his temples and stared down at his glass of liquor as if it had betrayed him. "Empire's going all to hell on my watch."

Penelo offloaded her bags near Yulia's feet and dropped into a chair with a sigh, reaching for an empty glass to pour herself a drink.

Balthier cleared his throat. "It appears your shopping trip was a grand success," he said dryly.

"Oh, yes," she said, fishing his pocketbook out of her pocket and tossing it back to him. "Yulia needed some clothing more suitable to pirating than gowns. You were very generous."

He weighed his pocketbook in his hand, counted it considerably lighter. "Yes," he said. "I can see that I was." Though she raised a brow as if expecting further comment, he declined to give one, instead shoving his pocketbook back where it belonged and diverting his attention to Vaan and Yulia, who bickered amongst themselves like children.

In an effort to quell the argument, Larsa cleared his throat and said, "Yulia, may I offer you a drink?"

She broke off mid-diatribe, her voice switching effortlessly from furious stridence to gentle and sweet. "No, thank you," she said. "I don't drink spirits; it's not –"

" _Ha_!" Vaan said again. "Can't even drink good whiskey." He folded his arms, leaning back in his chair, all smug superiority.

"I can ring for tea," Larsa suggested.

With a snarl of rage, Yulia collected a glass and poured a healthy measure from the decanter, and slammed the container back down upon the table with enough force to rattle the glasses littering its surface. She threw back the whiskey with great determination – and choked as the liquor burned down her throat. Her eyes watered; she collapsed into the nearest chair, swallowed with no small amount of effort, and wheezed, pressing one hand to her chest in distress.

Vaan roared with laughter.

"That's _foul_ ," Yulia managed at last, her voice a throaty rasp.

"It's some of the finest there is," Vaan said. "You're just too prissy to appreciate it."

"I am _not_ prissy!"

"Yulia," Penelo said, as kindly as she could, "you're a _little_ prissy."

With a heartfelt sigh, Yulia surrendered her glass and folded her hands in her lap. "I am trying very hard _not_ to be," she said.

"It is a valiant effort," Fran said. "Determination will carry you twice as far again as nature. It's half the measure of a good pirate at least."

Yulia glowed beneath the praise, her cheeks flushing with pleasure.

"I don't approve of this," Larsa said. "What shall I tell your father? He is certain to ask; these sorts of things never remain secret for very long."

Yulia considered that for a moment. "Tell him…tell him I am done with living my life for his convenience. For _anyone's_ convenience." She looked to Fran for approval, and a smile blossomed across her face at the swift nod she received. "Tell him I would rather exile myself from polite society than suffer another day beneath the burden of being wife and daughter."

"I _still_ do not approve," Larsa said severely.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Yulia sweetly replied, "I've quite made up my mind."

There was a firm set to Larsa's jaw that suggested that he was gearing up to convince her otherwise, but Balthier cleared his throat and gave a subtle shake of his head, concerned that such an action might rile the women enough to lead to another round of storming off in a snit.

Though he looked as if it pained him to do so, Larsa swallowed down his arguments and ceded the turn of the conversation to Balthier.

"As you may have noticed," Balthier said to Penelo, "In your absence, we have elected _not_ to kill one another after all."

She was still irritated; there was a pinched look to her lips, as if she were biting the inside of her cheek to hold back a sharp retort. But the heat of anger that had burned behind her eyes had gone – it didn't mean she wouldn't make him squirm like a worm on a hook, but he suspected she had every intention of forgiving him his lapse.

Once he had groveled sufficiently, of course.

And yet, she said nothing. Presumably she waited for him to redeem himself – or give her rope enough to hang him with.

Fair enough. He forged ahead. "Although we both maintain that we had only your best interests at heart, we were perhaps a touch over-zealous in our methods."

" _Perhaps a touch_?" she echoed incredulously. Fran reached over and placed one hand on her shoulder, a move which baffled Balthier but caused Penelo to subside into a sulky silence, folding her arms across her chest. "Go on," she muttered at last.

"We came to the conclusion that it wasn't our decision to make," he said. "We've agreed to abide by _your_ decision, whatever that may be."

"Hmm." Her lips twitched, just a hint of satisfaction there at the corners. Her eyes flitted first to Yulia, then past her to where Vaan sat, stewing in annoyed silence, on the sofa. "Is that true, Vaan?" she asked.

He made a rough sound in his throat. "Yeah," he said. "But I _still_ think –"

"I didn't ask," she said right over him. And then she rose from her chair, linking her hands behind her back. " _Whatever_ I decide," she stressed. "That's what you agreed to, right?" And when she received their murmurs of assent, she said, "Good. I'm going to stay aboard the _Strahl_ – for a while, at least. Vaan, I want you to take Yulia on the _Galbana_ and teach her to be a proper pirate."

Vaan leapt to his feet. "I didn't agree to _that_ ," he snapped.

" _Whatever_ I decided," she parroted back at him. "That's what you said, and I'm going to hold you to it." She was grinning, now, thoroughly enjoying Vaan's displeasure.

Balthier suppressed his own amusement, lest it provoke Vaan into another confrontation. Instead he took his feet, and said, "Vaan. We had a gentleman's agreement."

Vaan jabbed a finger at Yulia, who huffed, offended. " _She_ wasn't part of it!"

"She is now," Penelo said. She skirted the low table, approaching Vaan and snagging his arm to drag him off to a corner of the room. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and said in a cajoling tone, "We were useless, once, too, but we had help when we needed it. Now Yulia needs it – and you'll need a new partner eventually."

His face twisted in petulant disapproval. "But what about you?"

She gave a slow shake of her head. "Please understand," she said. "I _want_ to go."

Vaan scowled. "With _him_?" he whispered. "Oh, come on –"

"Vaan, _please_."

A growl scraped out of his throat. "Fine. I'll stay out of it. But I'm only going to give _her_ a month," he said reluctantly. " _One month_ ," he stressed louder, glowering at Yulia. "If you can't keep up, you're out on your ass. So get your things, because we're leaving."

With a cry of elation, Yulia leapt out of her chair, snatching at the bags gathered around her feet.

Larsa heaved a sigh. "As it seems I cannot dissuade you from this, I will arrange for transport back to the Aerodrome," he said to Yulia. "The less you are seen around the city dressed like a pirate, the fewer explanations I will be called upon to make. It'll be the work of a moment." He rose to his feet, shaking his head in consternation as he left the room.

Penelo crossed the room to Fran. "The _Strahl_ is your home, too," she said softly. "You can come back with us."

"Not just yet, I think," Fran said. "Time for a hume is a luxury, but I have more than enough to spare. I believe I shall spend a portion of it in keeping Vaan to his word and ensuring he does not impart to Yulia his own bad habits."

Penelo started as Balthier caught her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She glanced up at his face; he was trying very hard to camouflage his delight as repentance and would have been doing a halfway decent job of it, had he managed to keep the exultant gleam out of his eyes.

He bent to murmur at her ear, "Are you satisfied enough to have run through the contents of my pocketbook, or do you intend to make me suffer yet further?" His voice was warm and teasing, with a hint of a smile in it.

It took a valiant effort to swallow down her own smile, but somehow she managed it, tipping her nose in the air with a sniff. "I haven't decided yet," she said primly.

"Ah," he said. "I don't suppose you could be persuaded to decide aboard the _Strahl_? I find myself eager to leave, lest I inadvertently provoke your ire again." He made a muted sound of amusement. "And there is the matter of Vaan, still; he is _not_ inordinately fond of me at the moment – I would suggest a hasty departure, ere he decides to forego our temporary truce."

Penelo's gaze jerked to Vaan, who stood near the door, face drawn into a scowl. Though she had wanted to wait for Larsa's return, Penelo recognized the good sense in Balthier's suggestion. Vaan might've acquiesced to her request, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take a swing at Balthier anyway.

And then Balthier would be obliged to wipe the floor with him, and _she_ would be angry all over again.

She curled her fingers around Balthier's. "Tell Larsa I'll write," she said to Vaan, making for the door.

Vaan put his arm up to block her way before she could pass the threshold. "I'll call from time to time, just to be safe," he said. "And you'd damn well better _answer_ once in a while."


	23. Chapter 23

He had kept his grip on her hand, interlacing their fingers to hold hers fast as though he feared she might yet slip free and make a run for it. She wasn't inclined to do so, but was a bit gratified to realize that he hadn't simply assumed she would so favor him.

"I hope you enjoyed your shopping trip," he said, rubbing his thumb over hers.

She shrugged, pursing her lips to quell the smile that threatened. "It served its purpose." They had made it through the palace gates without incident, and once they reached the main thoroughfare, Balthier lifted his free hand to hail a cab.

"Did you leave me enough even to cover the cost of a cab, I wonder?" he asked, but there was no anger in his voice, nor even a hint of reproof. In fact, she thought there might even have been a bit of satisfaction, as if he were amused by her thievery. She'd run through an _obscene_ amount of his money, and it had pleased him.

She didn't think she would ever understand men.

"I didn't bother to count," she said. "So you might as well, because we'll be walking otherwise."

"No, I think not – I'd rather not take the chance of putting my foot in it again while you've yet the opportunity to slip away." He handed her into the cab that had stopped before them. "I keep a petty change fund stashed aboard the _Strahl_ ; it'll see us through well enough until I can be reasonably certain you won't go walkabout while I nip off to the bank."

She settled into her seat, well on her way to exhaustion – and it was only early afternoon. "I said I would stay," she said as he climbed in beside her and gave their direction to the driver.

"Yes, but you were angry with the both of us. I thought perhaps you might've said so to stave off Vaan, and from there it wasn't a particular difficult leap to suspecting you might've also intended to placate me long enough to make a run for it." He was careful to keep a respectable distance between them, as if he were attempting not to encroach upon her space, and she recalled how she had pulled away from him earlier in the day and wondered if perhaps he had drawn away so that _she_ would not.

"If I were interested in placating you," she said, "I wouldn't have stolen your pocketbook and spent the vast majority of your money. I think I expected you to be at least a _little_ mad."

His lips twitched as if he were holding back a smile. "Anyone who cannot hold onto his money deserves to lose it – including myself." He draped an arm over the back of the seat, and his fingertips brushed her hair. "It was pocket change, anyway."

Fran had been right; he _was_ proud. She brushed her hair over her shoulder so that it draped over the back of the seat and fixed her gaze ahead – in the rearview mirror she could see that his hand had dipped over the seat, and she felt a tiny pull and knew he'd taken up rubbing the strands between his fingers.

"Vaan said you had called a few days ago," he said. "And that you wished to speak with Fran." His voice was colored with what might've been concern, and she suspected he was agonizing over whether or not Fran had shared his secrets.

"I did," she said, and let her silence thereafter speak for itself.

After his comment failed to elicit the response he had been seeking, he made a rough sound in his throat and tried again. "I believe that would have been the night you polished off an entire bottle of wine on your own."

She squinted, canting her head to one side, as if trying to peer into the past. "It might've been," she said noncommittally.

"You've no intention of telling me what you spoke with her about, have you?" he asked, exasperated with her lack of candor.

"Not particularly, no," she admitted. "Some things are sacred. Girl talk is one of them." The cab took a turn, and the Aerodrome loomed in the distance, towering over most of the buildings in the city. She heard Balthier's sharp exhale and knew he was trying to devise a way to extract the information from her anyway.

"I was only curious as to whether or not she had said anything to you that may have lead to your...er, interest in discovering the bottom of a bottle," he said at last.

"Hm?" She turned wide, guileless eyes on him. "What could she have said that would lead to that?"

His eyes narrowed minutely, studying her face for signs of dishonesty. But she had played countless hands of cards over the past three years, risking her hard-earned money on the turn of a card and the impassivity of her expression. She could bluff with the best of them, had she the need. And she certainly didn't want him to learn what Fran had confessed before she was ready to confront it herself.

And she wasn't. Not yet.

"She told you nothing that upset you?" he asked. "You drank yourself into a dreadful hangover for no particular reason?"

"I like wine," she said with a shrug. "The wines Bartaan stocked were mostly vinegar. It's been a long time since I've had decent wine; I overdid it a little."

Whatever he saw in her face he must have determined to be the truth, for he let the matter drop, and she saw the lines that creased his brow relax. As long as he thought his secrets were safe, so, relatively, was she.

The cab pulled to a stop just outside the Aerodrome, in the wide circle at the end of the street intended for passenger loading and unloading. Balthier fished his pocketbook from his pocket and was pleased to find she'd left enough to cover the cab fare. Barely. She really had cleaned him out.

"I think I'm a bit disappointed that you didn't purchase anything for yourself," he said as he slid out of the cab, offering her his hand to help her out.

Her brows lifted. "I didn't need anything; Yulia did." He did not relinquish her fingers as she climbed out, curling his around hers still more securely.

She'd protested his purchase of hardly over a week's worth of clothing for her, but she'd sunk a fortune into a month's worth for Yulia? "There had to be well over a dozen bags," he said. "She needed _that_ much?"

"Well…probably not," she said. "But did you see her dress? It was patched and patched over again." She blew out a breath. "I thought she deserved some nice things. After all, she suffered Raen for years. And I _was_ angry with you."

"Deservedly so." His thumb made a pass over her wrist. "Still, even if you needed nothing, you might've seen your way to purchasing something you _wanted_."

"Are you chastising me for not spending _more_ of your money?" she asked, with an incredulous laugh. "Look, you have to understand, I don't usually think of things in terms of _wanting_ them," she said. "I grew up on the streets; I learned to pinch gil until they screamed. There was no use in wanting things when we could rarely afford the things we _needed_. So it's hard for me to look at luxuries and think about owning them. It's much easier to have nothing if you learn never to wish for more."

His hand had tightened on hers almost to the point of pain; she glanced up at his face to see his jaw taunt, his mouth compressed into a firm line. He hadn't liked hearing that, she realized with a frisson of surprise. She didn't know why it should bother him – it was just a fact of her life, a simple explanation for her frugality – but he had reacted like she'd uttered some heinous blasphemy.

She found herself mumbling an apology, which only served to irritate him further.

"When you say things like that, it makes me want to –" But he broke off abruptly with a harsh sound of impotent anger.

"What?" she asked, flustered.

"Nothing." His voice was a growl, rough and grating. "Never mind. It's not important."

* * *

Spoil her. He wanted to spoil her. He had gotten the distinct impression that the things that they considered luxuries differed vastly, and he was certain that when he discovered each new difference, he was bound to be furious all over again.

She hadn't purchased for herself a single godsdamned thing. Because she hadn't even _thought_ of it. Because she'd deliberately trained herself not to want anything. Because her childhood had been so full of insecurity and uncertainty that wanting anything was a fruitless endeavor she could ill afford. And she couldn't possibly understand why it made him so unbearably angry that she had normalized it in her mind, until it was a story she could repeat without inflection, as if it were only an anecdote and not a travesty.

The worst of it was that she had no idea what had upset him, and there was no way for him to explain it to her without revealing more than she would wish to hear. He didn't fool himself that she was in any way prepared for such a thing – even if she _had_ elected to stay aboard the _Strahl_ , it was entirely possible, perhaps even likely, that she simply preferred his company to Vaan's at the moment. And she'd yet to earn enough gil to strike out on her own.

It was, perhaps, the only thing that had kept her aboard. He didn't flatter himself that she would elect to stay for any other reason than that. Not yet, anyway – not with the anxiety that had wreathed her face only this morning.

Like as not, she would never be willing to take that sort of leap again, not when she had suffered consequences so severe for her misplaced faith. Even if she had put a small measure of trust in him, it would never be enough. Not for either of them.

He wanted everything. And she would always have one foot out the door, positioned to flee before the trap could slam shut upon her once more. It was an untenable situation. He had nothing to offer her that she wanted, nothing with which to tempt her into staying.

He supposed he was lucky that she had no knowledge of the bent of his thoughts – thank the gods that Fran hadn't been indiscreet – or she surely would have gone fleeing in abject terror.

Instead she only sighed as they boarded the _Strahl_ , as if the day had worn heavily upon her shoulders. "I really need a shower," she said, turning towards Fran's room.

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Use mine," he said.

She turned, brows arched, mouth rounded in surprise. "Why? Fran's got a lot more toiletries than you do."

"You'd smell like her," he said. "The next town we visit, we shall find you your own toiletries." And some other things as well. She ought to have her own nightclothes that hadn't been borrowed from amongst Fran's things…even if he didn't expect her to get much use out of them.

She tilted her head to the side, brows drawing together in confusion. "But I don't need –"

"Yes, I know, you don't _need_ them. But couldn't you find your way to _wanting_ them?" He had only confused her further; she stared at him blankly, perplexed.

She drew in a breath and pressed her lips together for a moment. At last she said, "Why would it bother you if I smell like Fran?" It was a challenge; she lifted her chin, daring him to respond.

And he did – but not, perhaps, in the way she had expected. He slid his hand down her arm slowly, collecting her hand in his. With a swift tug, she stumbled across the space separating them, gasping as his free arm slid around her waist to pull her close. Her free hand settled against his chest to steady herself, and the hand that he clasped in his flexed, but to his immense gratification she did not try to pull it away.

He gave her every chance to protest as he bent his head, and though her breath hitched in her chest, she didn't make a single sound that could possibly be construed as objection. Instead, her fingers tightened on his and she lifted herself onto her toes. And her lips were so impossibly soft beneath his, parting with only the barest of encouragement. She made a tiny sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, tilting her head to find a better angle, leaning into his chest, her whole body softening.

"Imagine," he said, pulling away a fraction of an inch, "that _I_ smelled like _Vaan_."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. She said, "Point taken," as she extracted herself from his arms. And then she crossed the hall, pushed open his door, and disappeared within his room, and a moment later there was the creak of turning taps and the rush of running water.

He had intended to leave her in peace, but as he turned to head for the deck, the muffled strains of a bawdy tavern song drifted through the door. He covered his mouth to stifle his laughter, wondering if she had any idea that the song she had chosen was filled with thinly-veiled innuendoes – hence its popularity amongst the tavern-going population.

His good intentions went up in smoke; he abandoned all thought of getting the _Strahl_ in the air and instead slipped into his room. She'd left the bathroom door open a crack, and wispy tendrils of steam crept through, turning the air heavy and damp. He shrugged out of his vest and shirt and took a seat at the edge of his bed to remove his boots, and at last pulled open the bathroom door.

The mirror had fogged over, and the air was thick with steam. It beaded on his leather trousers, misting them with a fine sheen of water. Through the hazy glass of the shower door, he could see that Penelo's back was to him; she stood beneath the heavy onslaught of the water, scrubbing her fingers through her hair, on the last verse of her indecent song. He admired the dip of her waist, the smooth slope of her back.

She couldn't hear the faint sounds his trousers made as he peeled them off and flung them away, didn't notice the slow slide of the shower door opening. She _did_ notice when his hands cupped her shoulders, and her song died on her lips with the startled shriek she issued. She recovered quickly enough, though she did not turn to face him.

She gave a little sniff of offended modesty. "Invading my privacy – have you no shame?"

"Very little," he admitted easily, surmising from the way that her shoulders arched into the gentle pressure of his fingers that she was more annoyed that he'd managed to surprise her than angry that he'd joined her in the shower. "I assure you, my trespass is on purely academic grounds." He grabbed the bar of soap, rubbing it between his hands to work up a foamy lather, then set back to sweeping his hands over her shoulders, up the slender column of her neck, and down her back.

" _Academic_?" she echoed, in a doubtful tone.

"Mm. I had to discover where you learned that song, and whether or not you were aware –"

"That it's filthy?" She snickered. "Of course I knew." She shivered as his hands cupped her hips, sliding along her water-slicked skin. "I know lots of those songs; anyone who frequents taverns would. For some reason, men just love them."

"Mm," he said. "I think I shall have to request a list of all the vulgar songs in your repertoire. Intellectual curiosity, you understand." His palm flattened on her belly, unwilling to encroach further without clearing the air enough to merit it. "Are you still angry with me?"

"A bit," she murmured, but there was a smile in the warmth of her voice.

He scraped her sodden hair over her shoulder, bent to kiss the nape of her neck. "Scale of one to ten?"

Her shoulders shook; she lifted one hand to cover her mouth as she disguised a laugh with a cough. "Four," she said.

"Four," he repeated contemplatively. "I believe I can work with four."

* * *

Penelo awoke at some point in the night with the realization that she had been alone in Balthier's bed for some time. The space beside her had cooled, and his pillow no longer bore the indention of his head upon it. By the purr of the _Strahl's_ engines and the lack of any discernible light peeking through the slatted blinds, she guessed that Balthier had risen to set a course away from Archades.

She turned over, stretching out on her stomach. Balthier would return eventually, and the gentle hum of the engines was soothing enough to lull her almost back to sleep. She was perhaps a minute or two away from nodding off when the soft murmur of voices broke over the white noise of the engines. Curiosity compelled her to climb out of bed, wrap herself in the blanket, and creep to the door. She pushed it open just a sliver, relieved that the well-oiled hinges betrayed not so much as a creak.

From the crack she could see straight down the corridor onto the deck, though only a portion of the pilot's chair was visible from her angle. A slice of his right shoulder rose above the back of the chair; his legs were stretched out to prop his bare feet upon the dash.

Though the volume had been lowered, ostensibly to avoid disturbing her slumber, she could still make out Fran's voice over the speakers. "If you are asking for any sort of assurance, I cannot give it to you. She holds her cards close to her chest."

The chair squeaked just a bit as Balthier rocked it back, clenching his hand into a fist. "Surely she must've said _something_. You were out for hours."

"She did not." A moment of hesitation. "Although I don't know that I would tell you even if she had."

"Blast it, Fran – whyever not?" His voice was a guttural growl, and yet still carefully modulated.

"Surely she deserves the privilege of privacy," Fran said, "having had so little of it of late."

He made a rough sound in his throat, uncurled his fist to clutch at the armrest instead. "If she would only tell me…"

"And why should she do that," Fran asked, "when you've said nothing to her? What reason have you given her to do so? Should she forget the lesson she's spent these last years learning over and over again at the hands of another man simply for your convenience?"

At the reminder of Raen's very existence, Balthier released a low sound of raw fury. "I wish I had killed him," he muttered.

"I imagine Penelo is rather pleased you did not. If you had, you would have taken her revenge from her. Death is far too swift and merciful; his punishment will be excruciating for one such as him."

"I know," he said. "I _know_." He sighed heavily. "But she loved him, and he nearly destroyed her. I think I could kill him for that alone. For failing to appreciate what he had. For treating her like a commodity to be bought and sold."

"One would think you were jealous that another man managed to hold her love, however briefly," Fran said, a faint thread of mocking amusement running through her voice.

"Of course I'm bloody well jealous," he snapped, and then fell abruptly quiet, the silence hanging in the air. Penelo saw his hand come up to scrub at his face. "Blast. How long have you known?"

"Oh, longer even than you, I expect," she said. "Your fascination ought to have guttered out within weeks. Instead it blazed like a star for years, despite your distance. How could I not have known?"

The silence drew out once again, thick and deep. At last he said, "She purchased nothing for herself today."

"I noticed as well," Fran said. "I don't think the thought even occurred to her."

"It did not," he said. "Because she has accustomed herself to wanting nothing." A frustrated sound scratched out of his throat. "She said that it is easier to have nothing if one never allows oneself to want anything."

"A pity that you cannot win her with wealth alone," Fran said dryly. "Character comes not so cheaply."

The chair creaked. "What am I to do?" he asked, his voice laden with sullen uncertainty. "I find myself angry that she has gone without, that she found it necessary to develop defense mechanisms to fool herself into believing that she could be satisfied having nothing." His breath hissed out on a furious exhale. "I've lost sleep in wondering if she has ever been cold or hungry or afraid, and I lack the courage to ask because I'm certain the answers would wreck me."

"Balthier, everyone has been those things at one point or another," Fran offered indulgently.

He made a scathing sound. " _She_ should not have been. Someone ought to have protected her." A pause; his head dipped forward, his palm cupped his cheek. " _I_ ought to have protected her."

"I believe you did, in your own way," she said. "It takes a great deal of strength to let someone go when you wish to keep them. Five years ago you might well have smothered her, even with the best of intentions. Now, I think she's come into her own enough not to let you."

"I don't want to smother her," he said on a rueful chuckle. "And she'd gut me if I tried. I…" He hesitated, his voice lowering to a dispirited murmur. "I only wish I knew how to make her happy. How to make her stay."

"Ah, well, that may come – but you will need to cultivate a new skill in the meantime," Fran said.

"And what would that be?"

"Patience," she said. "Expect no more than you've earned. Understand that a woman in her position will be twice as hesitant to throw in her lot with yours. You are not the sort to inspire blind confidence."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm walking a razor-thin line. If I should push her too far, she will go, and if she goes…" A harsh sound escaped him. "If she goes, she will take all the color with her. It'll all go grey again. Empty." His hand settled over the armrest, his fingertips tapping out an unsteady rhythm on the varnished wood. "She's so bright. I can't go back to living within a shadowed world."

"You offered her choices," Fran said. "There was always the risk of that."

* * *

Penelo let the door fall closed again, careful to let it latch soundlessly. There was a strange ache in her chest, a hard knot of emotion in her throat. Her eyes stung with tears, and she blinked them back furiously, though the effort only amplified the burning. She wasn't generally given to such displays of sentimentality. She didn't know why her eavesdropping had provoked it now.

Except that Fran had been right, and she didn't know what she was meant to do about it, how to walk willingly down a road she had traveled once before and had ended in disaster. Fools repeated their mistakes; she didn't want to believe she was one of them.

Fear clutched her in an icy grip and she spread the blanket upon the bed and crawled beneath it, curling into a ball in an effort to warm herself. The blankets smelled like Balthier, like sun and heat, encasing her, enfolding her in an echo of his arms. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

Her stomach clenched. Her breath shuddered out unsteadily.

Balthier had once said that she had been bruised but not broken, and he was right. Raen's defection had hurt her, battered her pride, pierced her heart.

Balthier's would _ruin_ her. She wouldn't merely be broken, she would be shattered. Irreparably damaged. How could she open herself to that sort of risk, knowing that an unfavorable result would destroy her?

The door opened with the barest click to alert her to his presence. He thought she was asleep; the bed depressed as he climbed in, making every effort not to wake her. Gently he slid his arm beneath her neck, and the heat of his skin seared hers, chasing away the chill. She stretched out her legs, toasting her cold toes on his calves.

He gave a muffled chuckle and his lips bussed her temple. "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.

"It's okay," she said. "I just…got cold."

In response, he gathered her close, surrounding her with the heat of his body to ward off the cold. And she remained silent, tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder.

He had said she would take the color with her if she left.

He would take the warmth.


	24. Chapter 24

"We _can't_ ," Penelo gasped in horror. "Are you _insane_?"

Balthier laughed, thoroughly enjoying her pique as he searched through the drawers in the _Strahl's_ kitchen. Her cheeks had flushed with angry color, her arms were crossed over her chest – she looked as though she were seconds away from launching into a lecture.

His fingers closed around the corkscrew; he pulled it from the drawer and held it aloft.

She made a choking sound, uncrossed her arms to thrust out one hand in warning. "Balthier, don't you _dare_."

He tucked the corkscrew into his pocket lest she make a grab for it, and set to work peeling away the wax that coated the mouth of the wine bottle he held in one hand. "Don't be such a stick in the mud," he said. "It's not as precious as some."

"You said it was worth fifty thousand gil," she cried.

"Yes. And we're going to enjoy it," he said. He risked a calculated distraction while he set the bottle on the counter and reached for the corkscrew once again. "I must apologize – it's not as fine as the one you drank all on your own a few days past."

Her face taking on a decidedly greenish tinge, she said, "How much – no. No, don't tell me."

"Seventy or so," he said anyway. Her fingertips bit into the countertop; she swayed in her seat.

"Oh, gods. Oh, _gods_ – you should have stopped me!" Her voice soared through several octaves, ending on a plaintive wail of distress.

"How should I have done that? I wasn't about at the time." The cork popped free; her eyes narrowed as he reached for a pair of glasses.

"I can't believe you did that," she said. "Fifty thousand – that's a _fortune_. And it's wasted, now."

"Not wasted." He poured two glasses, sliding one of them over the counter toward her. "Good wine was meant to be enjoyed, not put in a rack and taken out to admire every so often." He collected his own glass and took a drink. It was rich and smooth, with a sweet blackberry finish and just a hint of oak from the barrel it had aged within.

She stared down her own glass as if she could will it back into the bottle.

"You might as well," he coaxed. "The damage is already done."

And though she heaved a great, long suffering sigh, at last she lifted the glass and took a hesitant sip. She scowled at him as she attempted to mask her own enjoyment. "It's good," she said grudgingly.

He hid a smirk behind his glass. "I want you to give me one day," he said.

A frown etched itself between her brows. "I don't understand what you mean."

He braced himself with one hand on the counter beside her. "I mean I want one day where you count the cost of nothing. Where you don't agonize over prices or say you don't need something. I want you tell me if there is something you _want_."

"But I don't –"

He stared at her, hard, and she lapsed into a wary silence.

At length she tried again. "I really –"

His eyes narrowed, daring her to continue. She swallowed audibly and mumbled, "Okay."

"Good," he said. "Drink your wine; we're going shopping."

She groaned, her shoulders slumping. "But I just went!"

"You didn't purchase anything," he chided. "Not for yourself, anyway."

"Because I didn't _want_ anything!"

He patted her hand in a patently false expression of sympathy. "Today you will. Or at the very least, you will endeavor to _try_."

"But _why_?" She clutched her glass like it was a lifeline, the only thing standing between her and venturing out into the world for the sole purpose of spending money. She'd spent so long saving every miserable gil she could lay her hands on that she couldn't imagine spending it with anything but trepidation. She took another drink, caught between resentment that he'd opened wine worth a fortune and pleasure in the privilege of drinking so fine a vintage.

She didn't want to get used to it. It was easier not to – she couldn't miss anything she'd never had.

"You need to learn how to have fun," he said.

"I _know_ how to have fun," she said as she drained the last of her wine. She held out her glass for him to top up, convinced she was going to need the fortification of it in the coming hours.

He chuckled. "No, you know how to work and _call_ it fun," he said. "Today, we are going to have _actual_ fun that involves _actual_ enjoyment. You're not to consider the cost or perform any mental gymnastics in order to convince yourself that you'd be better off going without."

She managed a bleak facsimile of a smile. "Wonderful," she said in a flat tone. "I'm having fun already."

* * *

Bhujerba had flourished in the intervening years since last she had visited. If one could call being kidnapped and spirited from her home a _visit_. She'd seen very little of the city then, having spent most of her time first secreted away in the Lhusu Mines, and then at Marquis Ondore's mansion – but she remembered the vague desolation that had blanketed the city, the pall that had hung over it like a shroud. As Larsa had explained it, Bhujerba had been forced into an alliance with Archadia against Dalmasca, and the citizens of the skycity had been appalled to be pulled into the conflict.

But the shadows of war had lifted years past, and the city has come alive again and was clearly prosperous. Stalls lines the streets from the Aerodrome all the way up to the Marquis' mansion, and vendors called out to passersby, inviting them to examine their wares.

The city was smaller than Archades, the streets narrower and the crowd thinner, but then, Bhujerba wasn't quite the hub of commerce that Archades was. It was off the beaten path, as only a city situated upon a floating archipelago could be.

Balthier had insisted upon stopping at the local bank to replenish his dwindling reserves of cash, and he had known by the look on her face that she wanted to protest the ridiculously large amount he'd withdrawn, but had stifled her objection with a murmured threat of withdrawing more if she said so much as a single word.

Her mouth had snapped shut with an audible _click_ , and he had snickered in satisfaction. And he hadn't had the good grace to look even slightly apologetic about it.

A bell tinkled as it was jostled by an opening door, and a wave of sweetly-scented air rushed over them as it followed a customer out of a nearby shop.

"Ahh," Balthier said. "I think we'll find something in here." He caught the door before it could close and pulled Penelo along with him. The luxuriant scents of various perfumes hung heavily within, sending her head reeling with the fragrances of exotic flowers. Tins of soap and vials of scents lined the walls, along with bottles of shampoos, conditioners, and a whole assortment of toiletries Penelo had never seen before.

She'd never frequented a shop of this nature, preferring instead to source her soaps from general goods shops, where they stocked only plain bars. She considered even those a luxury when compared against the lye soap that her mother had made by hand – but lye soap, while it did the job for which it was intended, carried an acrid, bitter scent that stung her nose, and she had been willing to shell out the extra couple of gil for plain, scentless bars.

She had _not_ been willing to spend her hard-won money on a tiny, plum-colored cake of soap, the cost of which would have kept her in unscented bars for four years. She gave it a hesitant sniff nonetheless and crinkled her nose at the cloying scent of violets. Too sweet and floral; it wouldn't suit her. And it was too expensive by half, anyway.

Balthier appeared beside her, basket in hand, ostensibly to hold their purchases. "Anything?"

She shook her head, setting down a bottle that reeked of gardenias. "I think Fran's got half of these already anyway." Wisteria, freesia, plumeria, and primrose all went the way of the gardenia and violet – back on the shelf.

"Hm." He paced down the row, examining the bottles and bars for himself. She watched him consider several prospects, rejecting each of them in turn. But at last he selected a vivid yellow bar, sniffed it, and paused to beckon her over.

He handed the bar over to her. The others had fairly bowled her over with their overpowering fragrances before she'd even gotten them near her nose, but this one was different – the clean, tart scent of citrus tickled her nose and made her mouth water, and the tang was balanced by the light sweetness of honey and vanilla.

It smelled like summer and sunlight. It smelled _bright_.

He didn't even have to ask whether or not she'd liked it; he simply collected an assortment of products in the scent and dumped them into the basket. Acting on force of habit, she picked up a bottle to flip it upside down and check the price scrawled on the bottom of the bottle.

He caught her hand before she could. "We had a deal," he said.

"I was just curious," she said defensively.

His mouth flattened into a grim line. He released her hand to flick another bottle into the basket.

She frowned. "I don't know what you expect me to do with all of those," she said. "I really don't need –"

He arched a brow, reached out, and swept three more bottles into the basket. His palm lingered upon the table, fingertips tapping on the surface, waiting for her to make another unwise comment. She had little doubt that if she did, he would sweep the whole lot of it up, just to make a point.

She shut up.

"All right, then," he said. "Let's be off." He turned to head for the counter to pay.

She waited at a safe distance, and at last muttered something petulant under her breath.

He didn't even bother to turn his head as he said, "Penelo, I swear I will buy out the entirety of this shop." Passing the basket over to the clerk, he dug for his pocketbook.

"I didn't say anything!" she protested. Watching the clerk tally up the total was torturous; her stomach twisted into knots. And somehow she suspected that he hadn't actually been joking when he'd threatened to buy out the shop. "I'm just going to wait outside," she said. "I can't watch this – I really can't." She lit out of the shop as if her feet had caught fire, and the bell above the door jangled.

Balthier shook his head in rueful consternation. "My apologies," he said to the clerk. "She's got an aversion to spending my money."

The clerk gave a hearty peal of laughter. "Other men might count their blessings, sir."

"Yes, they might." Balthier collected the bags that the clerk passed over the counter. "But I'm not among them."

* * *

"This?" Balthier held up a shimmering scarf in a vibrant orange hue; it was embroidered with rich gold thread and heavily weighted with gems at the edges, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.

She wrinkled her nose. "It's the middle of summer," she said. "What would I do with it? And…it's a bit ostentatious, don't you think?"

"I've seen worse," he said, but he replaced the scarf nonetheless, and Penelo sighed in abject relief. Already he'd purchased so many things that she didn't know how they would possibly fit aboard the _Strahl_. She had learned quickly to avert her gaze before she examined any one thing for too long, as he'd developed the worrying habit of purchasing things simply because she'd looked at them long enough for him to have noticed.

"You've yet to pick out anything yourself," he chided. "I'm spending a fortune on guesses."

She turned up her nose. "That's hardly _my_ fault," she said. "I told you, I –"

He snatched the scarf off the rack once again and waved it before her face. "Shall I purchase it after all?"

She frowned. "I _really_ don't want it," she said.

"So far you've wanted nothing; you were _supposed_ to be making an effort." He replaced the scarf once again, shifting the bags to one arm and sliding the other around her waist. "I assure you, I've got a sizeable fortune and nothing better to spend it on. You won't come close to beggaring me." His forehead touched hers and he murmured, "How is it you can ask for me to keep on a legion of servants, and yet you cannot decide on a single purchase for yourself?"

She shifted uncomfortably within the circle of his arm. "Because it was their livelihood – it was _important_."

" _You're_ important," he said. "It's not a crime to want things."

Her brow furrowed; she chewed at her lower lip in mute contemplation. "It's also not _your_ responsibility to buy them for me."

Her wariness was a warning; he took a moment to consider his possible responses. "Perhaps not," he said at last. "But someone ought to spoil you, if only a little. At the moment, that honor falls to me – at least until we find a suitably lucrative target. I've not forgotten that I promised you the haul of a lifetime in Rozarria, only to have it fall far short of expectations. Perhaps I feel a bit guilty."

She let out a breath. "That's hardly your fault," she said. "There are things more precious than gil. I think I'd rather free a trapped spirit than liberate a fortune."

Of course she would – because that was simply the person she was. She hadn't been lured into their alliance five years ago with the promise of treasure; she had come out of love and loyalty. "Be that as it may," he said. "I gave you my word, and I owe you that which I promised. So be a dear and do keep your complaints to a minimum."

A flutter of reluctant laughter escaped her, and she wriggled to free herself from his arm. A brisk wind sailed down the street, whipping her hair into his face. "Now, Balthier," she said, and he braced himself for another protest.

It did not come. Her brows drew together; she tilted her head to the side, listening intently. In the distance, carried on the breath of the wind, came the faint sound of chimes.

She moved like a puppet on strings, all jerky hesitation as if compelled by an unseen master, her face carefully blank. All thoughts of argument abruptly forgotten, she turned away, skirting the scant passersby and wending through the thin crowd in search of the sound. He followed on her heels, baffled by the sudden change but determined to follow where she lead nonetheless.

The sound grew louder, cresting in rolling waves of sweet musical notes carried by the ebb and flow of the wind. At last she paused before a cart set up near an alley, and her destination became clear – from the top of the cart hung an assortment of wind chimes.

He paused beside her; she had closed her eyes, listening to the chimes, her face drawn in pensive consideration. Her fingers were linked before her, and he thought he saw her lower lip tremble just a bit. Just enough to make him suspect that he was witnessing a memory.

At last her eyes opened, a sheepish smile chasing across her face as she realized that he had been observing her silently for some time. "I found something I want," she said.

He chuckled. "Of everything you might've picked, you've decided upon wind chimes?" A quick glance at the tag revealed the price. "Oh, come now – I've purchased pints of ale that cost more. Couldn't you have picked something a bit more dear?"

"They're dear to me," she said, reaching out to tap one. The wooden tubes and thin metal bars clicked against one another, creating round, hollow tones interspersed with merry ringing. She smiled, warm and sweet and a bit sad.

He didn't even have to reach for his pocketbook; the chimes wanted only a handful of change. He passed it over to the vendor, who tucked it into his purse and picked a string of chimes off the cart. Penelo collected them, holding them in one hand to keep the cords from tangling. She carried it by its hanger like a precious treasure, safeguarding it against the passing people, carefully cradling the chimes in the palm of her free hand.

"Where will you hang them?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, and laughed. "I don't know, but it doesn't matter."

"They'll need wind," he said. "But we can't exactly hang them from one of the _Strahl's_ wings."

The corner of her mouth hitched in a wry grin. "They don't _need_ wind," she said. "Gods know there wasn't any in Rabanastre, not with forty foot walls surrounding the city. But my mother had a set of chimes anyway, and they hung right in front of our door." Her voice grew wistful, caught in the misty flow of distant memories. "Whenever she arrived home, she'd give them a tap and the notes would come sailing in the door with her. That's how I remember her most: surrounded by the music of wind chimes, even in a city with no wind to speak of."

The fragile smile trembled on her lips and at last crumbled. She ducked her head and sniffled, and he knew that she was fighting back tears. "I found something I wanted after all," she said in a ragged whisper. "Do you think we could call it a day?"

He couldn't recall seeing her cry. Even when she had spoken of Raen, of the humiliation she'd suffered at his hands, she hadn't shed a tear. But any moment now she was going to start – because of a simple set of wind chimes – and he was going to be wrecked.

He slipped his free arm around her waist, gathering her close to his side. "Of course," he said.

And she notched her head against his shoulder in a spontaneous display of affection, and murmured, "Thank you."

* * *

She had hung the chimes up near the window in his bedroom, and the _Strahl's_ gentle rocking coaxed forth lullaby-soft music to which she half-listened, drowsing with her head pillowed on his chest. Somehow she had staved off her tears, but she hadn't said a single word since they'd boarded the ship.

He suspected she was biding her time, refortifying the defenses that had crumbled, attempting to pack away again all of the memories that she'd compartmentalized in her childhood. She had been an orphan for some years before they had met; he had known that much. But she hadn't spoken of her family five years ago, and had offered only the tiniest glimpses of her past before the war since.

He hadn't had the happiest of childhoods, but he thought perhaps that she _had_ – until Archadia's invasion had sent her life spiraling into complete upheaval. How could she have survived it, except by separating herself from the past and living only in the present?

He brushed his fingertips across the sleek softness of her bare shoulder, trailing them down her arm, which was draped across his abdomen, linking his fingers with hers. "How old were you, when your parents passed?" he asked.

She gave a half-shrug. "Thirteen, nearly fourteen. It was the week before my birthday."

There was no inflection; she might as well have been reciting a weather forecast, or events that had happened to someone else to whom she had no relation.

"It must have been difficult for you," he said.

"I try not to think about it," she said. "Some things hurt too much." She turned her head, burying her face against his chest, and her words were muffled. "Anyway, there were a lot of orphans. Lots of them were younger even than me, and we were all scared. I didn't have the luxury of grieving; there's no sense in it when you have to worry about finding a place to sleep, or wonder when your next meal will come. _If_ it will come."

He winced, his heart wrenching at the words. For all that he too had been uprooted in his childhood, he had never worried about basic necessities. Love had been in short supply, but he had never wanted for food or shelter.

"They wouldn't have wanted me to mourn," she said with no small amount of conviction. "They would have thought it was a waste of time and energy, and they wouldn't have wanted me to cry either. They would have wanted me to keep only the good memories, and there were so many." She let out a shuddery sigh, and her fingers clutched at his. "The bitter ones have mostly faded with time, but the good ones are left."

"I'm glad," he said, aware of the raspy tenor of his voice.

"I didn't cry," she said. "But if I had, it wouldn't have been because I was sad." Her fingers flexed in his. "It was just…for a moment, I could close my eyes and see her. Like she'd just stepped out for a moment, and then there were the chimes, letting me know she'd come back home."

"I think they would have been proud of you," he said.

She half-turned, and she managed a cheeky smile. "I know they would have been," she said. "They fought for the Resistance, you know. Mama, Papa, and my brothers – all of them. I was too young to join, but they all fought for Dalmasca, for Ashe. I was so happy to follow in their footsteps, to help see their cause through to the end. It was a vicarious victory for them, and closure for me, I think. I couldn't bring them back, but I could honor their dreams for Dalmasca's future."

He had never been so noble. They had gone in exact opposite directions; he had shucked off expectations like a soiled set of clothes, spending years in the pursuit of fame and fortune, and she had spent hers carefully tending the dreams of her departed family. But she made him _better_ – as if a bit of her nobility had rubbed off on him just through association.

She made him question things he had never questioned before, made him consider other people. She was the conscience he had never had much of a use for, nattering in his ear about protecting the livelihoods of servants who depended upon him, about lending assistance to those in untenable situations – a boy with too few coins for even so much as an apple, a long-dead queen trapped in her hidden tomb, the wife of her former lover. Her experiences hadn't hardened her the way his had hardened him; she had persisted in the face of them, guarding her heart perhaps a bit too closely, but invariably showing every kindness to those who had known too little.

Because she had once been one of them. And he thought that she must have seen a bit of herself in each of them, had been eager to render the aid that she had been denied, whereas he…he had never even bothered to look.

She would probably keep challenging him, teaching him, changing him in subtle ways. And he would let her do it – just for the sake of the glimmer in her eyes when he acquiesced to her requests, as if he'd grown a little in her eyes, as if he'd made her proud.

She was everything that had been lacking in his life: love, loyalty, honor, integrity, generosity. And perhaps he possessed a few flaws from which she could stand to benefit. She needed to learn the merits of occasional self-indulgence, a bit of well-deserved hedonism.

"You've been quiet," she said. "What are you thinking?"

Damnation – he couldn't tell her. And so he grappled desperately for something, and at last latched onto a stray thought that had been lingering at the back of his mind for some time: "Asraen was right about me, you know. Everything _is_ contrived."

She made an inquisitive little sound, tilting her head to look up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I wasn't raised in a noble household. I spoke the street cant with the most appalling accent you can imagine. I _did_ ape my betters; when I was sent away to school, I studied the other lads. The way they spoke, the way they walked, their expressions – I stole it all, a thief even in my youth. None of it is real; I merely adopted it." He watched her face for any change, any hint of the distaste that had been a staple of his youth.

There was just the faint lift of an eyebrow. "And?" she prodded.

"That's it. That's all." He squeezed her fingers. "Most Archadians would've been horrified. The separation of the classes is extreme, and those who would reach beyond their station are not well received."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not Archadian," she said. "Besides, if they're anything like Raen, you're worth a dozen of them."

And in that moment, he would have given her anything she wished for.

But he had been a pirate for too many years not to want everything in return.


	25. Chapter 25

"You're not much of a morning person, are you?" Penelo asked, drumming the tips of her fingers on Balthier's back. It had gone past nine already, and she had been awake for at least half an hour.

He swatted at her hand ineffectually, and from beneath the pillow he'd crammed over his head, his muffled, irritable voice emerged. "I would prefer _not_ to be, if it's all the same to you."

"But you managed well enough a few days ago, when we were heading to Archades. It was barely dawn when we left." She crawled towards the edge of the bed, and they engaged in a brief tug-of-war for possession of the blanket. Balthier won handily, and Penelo huffed her chagrin.

"A few days ago, we were still on the run," Balthier muttered. "We're not any longer. There's no reason to rise before noon."

"You said _ten_ a few days ago," she chided.

"I've since reconsidered."

"Oh, come on," she groaned. " _I'm_ up. Are you really going to make me sit around and wait for you?"

A beat of silence as he considered her words. At last, he said. "No, I suppose not."

She made a delighted sound, leaning over the bed and preparing to tear the covers off of him. He waited until he felt her fingers clutch at the covers, then rolled to his side, clamping her wrist in his fingers. She had all of half a moment for shock to set in before he yanked her straight off her feet and back onto the bed.

She landed with a muffled _thump_ , face-first in the pillow next to his head, and recovered quickly enough to twist onto her side and glare at him. "That was _not_ what I meant."

"Well, you really ought to have been clearer, then. It's hardly my fault that you left your words open to interpretation." He caught her before she could roll away, trapping her in the cage of his arms.

She gave a sigh as he bent to nuzzle her throat, levering himself over her. "You can't solve all of your problems this way," she said.

"Perhaps not," he allowed. "But it's certainly fun to try." His hands fisted in her hair, and he managed to work his knee between hers. "In any case, I've achieved my ends."

"Oh?" she inquired, slipping her arms around him to sweep her hands down his back.

"Mm," he said near her ear. "In bed. Until noon."

"Ten," she said. "Until _ten_."

He caught her earlobe in his teeth. "Half eleven."

She rolled her eyes. "Eleven, then. Final offer."

"Done." He sealed the bargain with a kiss. "But I reserve the right to encourage you to lose track of time."

* * *

They had both lost track of time. Noon had sailed by unheeded, and it was coasting along into early afternoon already. Balthier had drifted back to sleep, his arm draped over her waist, holding her securely against him. His chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths, pressing against her back with each slow inhale, the light snore to which she had so quickly become accustomed rumbling at her ear.

For years she had slept very much like this, curled onto her side, her back pressed flat against the door of the dank little room that had been hers at the tavern. Her bed had been little more than a thin pallet upon the floor. She'd had neither pillow nor blanket, nothing to give her even the slightest measure of security except for the door at her back, riddled with splinters. She had come to depend on that much – the door that shuddered with the thud of footsteps down the hall, the rough grain of the cold wood scraping her in warning, her first line of defense.

Now Balthier served that purpose, but far more pleasantly. The warmth of his chest soaked into her skin, lulling her into a sort of peaceful tranquility she hadn't experienced in years. His arms encompassed her, not the passive claim to protection the door had provided, but active – he would be the first to rout a potential threat to her safety. She had no doubt of that whatsoever.

So why did she have so many _other_ doubts?

She didn't want to think of herself as such a coward, but…everyone left in the end. She was fairly certain that Balthier had broken more hearts than any one man had a right to. It would be irredeemably foolish to put herself in that position again. Wouldn't it?

Or would it be more foolish, as Yulia had said, to let love slip through her fingers?

It wasn't _him_ that she didn't trust – it was herself. She didn't know how _not_ to be suspicious and distrustful. She had no confidence in her own judgments; she had been betrayed and now she expected it from every angle. She didn't know how to let that part of herself go, how to stifle the sly voice in her head that decried every kind deed and word as some sort of nefarious scheme.

Balthier didn't deserve that sort of mistrust. He had done nothing to earn it, and much to surmount it. After all of the trouble he had gone to on her behalf, he deserved some measure of faith. She simply didn't know that she had it in her to give. It had all been crushed out of her long ago.

In his sleep, he stretched out his arm and then readjusted it over her, flattening his palm over her heart and pulling her closer. He turned his face into her hair, and his breath sighed out on a contented huff, as if there were no place in the world he would rather be.

Just now, there was no place _she_ would rather be. Even if it didn't last, she suspected this moment would live in her heart forever; a memory she could pack away and take out every so often just to look at it and admire it and remember how nice it had been, for once, to be safe and maybe even loved.

Her heart stuttered through a few harried beats, and she was unsure if it was the result of panic or the tiniest resurgence of hope. She might not have it in her. She might've lost the capacity for it, the belief in it…but perhaps she owed it to him – to _herself –_ to try.

* * *

"I should call Vaan," Penelo said, between sips of sweet wine. Balthier hadn't offered a price point for this particular bottle, and she hadn't asked, having decided that as long as she didn't know, she wouldn't risk heart palpitations. Still, knowing what she did of him, somehow she doubted that Balthier would have kept anything aboard that _Strahl_ that didn't want an outrageous price.

He might cede to her the smaller battles without too much of a fight, but he wouldn't give up his creature comforts for anything. And she supposed – begrudgingly – that he had earned them.

"I wouldn't," Balthier said. "I imagine he and Yulia still have some bickering to work through, and it will be all Fran can do to keep them from each other's throats. Each of them will be looking for a sympathetic ear should you call, and it can only breed resentment. Best to let them alone for a while."

"But Vaan said –"

"Vaan said _he_ would call," he interrupted. "Don't fret; it'll work itself out. And I've got it on good authority that Yulia's taking to her sky pirate training like a duck to water, much to Vaan's dismay."

Penelo smothered a snicker. "Fran?" she asked.

He inclined his head. "As she tells it, it took only a few swats to the arse with the flat edge of a sword to convince Yulia that fighting with honor would only get her killed. Fran says she's grown almost feral. Vaan made the mistake of underestimating her, and she nearly took his arm off."

"I'll be he _loved_ that," she said.

"Well…no. But he is quickly running out of reasons to give her the boot. She might have much to learn, but she _is_ learning." He leaned back in his chair. "I suspect there will come a time when she'll outstrip him for supremacy. It would do him good, I think, to be put in his place."

Penelo did not disagree. She had always been the one coaxing Vaan to follow a straighter path, and it had taken most of her energy simply to keep him out of trouble. Or jail. Or both. Usually both. She only hoped Yulia was up to the task, because Fran would not stay around forever.

And Penelo didn't relish a return to the days when her primary function had been to act as _Vaan's keeper_. She had outgrown the desire to manage, to soothe ruffled feathers and maintain an even keel. She liked that she didn't have to babysit Balthier, liked that he handled himself ably enough and allowed her the freedom of the same. She didn't have to clean up his messes, didn't have to act as an intermediary between him and anyone else. She didn't have to be _responsible_ for him.

Instead they rubbed along well together, and he gave her suggestions and desires equal weight – something that Vaan, well-meaning as he was, had never done. She wasn't accustomed to the courtesy, and she didn't know what to make of it.

"Something troubling you?" he asked.

Belatedly, she realized she had gone silent, staring out the window with her gaze fixed on the horizon. The setting sun burned over the ridge of mountains in the distance, gilding the snow-capped peaks. Dusk rippled over the cloud-speckled sky in muted purple, and the first stars would soon emerge. "No," she said. "I was just wondering where we were headed."

"At the moment, Rozarria," he said. "There's a port city called Tarram on the Bay of Challonde that is primarily frequented by smugglers. It's as good a place as any to collect information; for the right price, virtually anything can be bought there." He paused. "Had you another destination in mind?"

He was comfortable making decisions, taking charge when necessary – but just as comfortable ceding that control to her, if she wished for it. And she knew that if she said she didn't want to go, he would honor it and find a new destination. He wasn't merely humoring her, giving in to her whims for the purpose of placating her; he saw her not as his tagalong companion but as an equal partner.

"No," she said. "I was only curious." She wasn't quite as well-traveled as he, and presumably he knew it. Probably he saw their jaunts across the face of Ivalice as broadening her horizons, acquainting her with the world she had seen too little of. Perhaps he was training her up, just like Fran was Yulia.

"There ought to be a few leads for us to chase down in Tarram," he said. "Shipping schedules are a big business, and we ought to be able to find something worth our trouble – and almost certainly a bounty large enough to put you back in the black once again."

She could almost regret that. If such a lead should pan out and she should find her finances sufficiently recovered, she would be absent an excuse for staying on with him. She would _have_ to make a decision – and her future hinged upon making the right one.

Somehow, she was going to have to muster up the courage to make a leap of faith.

* * *

She had expected Tarram to resemble Balfonheim port, which was the pirating city hub in the Archadian territories, but instead of the quaint seaside city she had expected, there was instead a sprawling network of piers laid out across the eastern edge of the bay, with ramshackle buildings perched atop them. The whole thing looked as though it might tumble into the sea at any moment.

"It's sturdier than it appears," Balthier said, noting the incredulity scrawled across her face. "It's withstood the test of time for some fifty years or so; I imagine it'll stand for at least the night we'll be here."

"Are you sure of that?" she asked, as he brought the _Strahl_ down upon the bank.

"As sure as I can be," he said. "It's wisest, however, to watch where you walk. More than one pirate has lost his life to a board in a sad state of disrepair. And it's not unheard of for some of the bolder pirates to eliminate their competition by pitching them into the water. The currents in these parts are treacherous and unpredictable; one would have to be an exceptionally strong swimmer to overcome them."

Penelo shuddered. "Is that something we ought to be worried about?"

"Only if _you've_ acquired a reputation as a pirate here in Rozarria," he said. "My notoriety extends primarily to Archadia and Dalmasca. I've enemies there, perhaps, but to the best of my knowledge, none of them reside within Rozarria's borders."

She hesitated a fraction of a second too long. Balthier swiveled around to face her. " _No_ ," he said. "You've made enemies?"

"Well," she hedged. "There were lots of pirates that frequented Bartaan's tavern, and I may have picked a pocket a time or two."

"A time or two?" he echoed, his brows arched.

"Maybe a few more than that," she admitted, folding her arms over her chest. "Well, really – if I hadn't, I'd only have racked up more debt. And I only did it to the really awful ones, the ones that deserved it."

A laugh rumbled in his chest. He snagged her elbow, pulling her close to plant an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. "That's rich," he said. "Should we take a tumble into the bay at someone else's hands, I won't have to fear that it was _my_ actions that did us in."

She extricated herself from his grasp, stomping toward the dock. "Rub it in, why don't you," she muttered.

"Oh, I intend to," he called after her.

There was the mechanical whirr of the ramp extending, the door lifting to let them out. A plume of fine-grained sand drifted skyward as the ramp settled. The salt-scented sea air rushed past, carrying with it the distant cry of seabirds and the crash of the surf against the rocky shore at the western edge of the bay. The sun had long since set, but lanterns strung along the piers bobbed like fairy lights in the dark, wreathing the city in shimmering spots of light.

She started down the ramp, and Balthier followed behind, punching in the code to retract the ramp and lock up the ship as he went. The sandy beach was dotted with all manner of ships, a testament to how many travelers Tarram boasted.

"You won't find Tarram on any map," Balthier said as they walked the shoreline. "It hasn't got the same veneer of legitimacy that Balfonheim has established. Tarram and its denizens are a law unto themselves, and they keep their secrets hidden the prying eyes of their empire. It is known by word of mouth alone, a smuggler's and pirate's paradise."

The closest pier stretched before them, a mishmash of boards that looked as if they'd been scavenged from wrecked boats, the planks warped and in varying states of disrepair, cobbled together haphazardly.

"After you." Balthier waved her on in what might've been considered a chivalrous gesture, but the smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth suggested he simply wanted to see her brave it on her own.

Hesitantly she touched the flat of her foot to it, somewhat surprised it held up even beneath that scant weight. She'd expected it to crack straight down the center, and even if she would only fall through onto the sand, it still wasn't an experience she wished to have. Balthier had been right – it _was_ sturdier than it first appeared. The boards didn't even creak as she shuffled onto them, for all that the nails looked as if they'd been driven in at odd angles. Though they were rusty from exposure to the water, they held admirably.

The swaying lanterns in the distance lit the main pier, a wide boardwalk stretching in a semi-circle and lined with plain wooden structures overlaid with thatched roofs. The star-strewn sky pressed in above, and the tiny city glowed with its own small, insular halo of light beneath it. Balthier lead the way, past the rickety buildings on the outer edges toward the larger ones on the main pier. Here the well-trod boards had been worn smooth by the passage of many feet through the years, and the slick surface of the wood shone in the lamplight, reflecting the moon hanging heavy in the sky.

The murmur of voices grew louder, rising over the crash of the surf, and at last Balthier stopped before a building, grabbed the handle, and threw open the door. The chatter dimmed as the people within paused their conversations to survey the newcomers, but soon escalated to its former furor.

All told, the tavern wasn't much different than Bartaan's. Perhaps the chairs were better matched, and the floor was cleaner. It had a notice board like many others, although she suspected the marks posted there weren't beasts but _people_.

"Have a seat," Balthier said. "I'll speak with the owner and see what he's got on the menu."

Somehow, she did not think he was referring to food. She peeled off and skirted tightly-clustered tables, selecting a small one off to the side to settle in and wait, uncomfortably aware that she had attracted a good deal of interest. Unlike in Galina, there were no other women in this tavern. Lady pirates were still something of a rarity, and they probably did not welcome her encroachment into their world. She folded her arms over the table, hoping that their attention would soon wane.

A few minutes passed; she focused on the notice board on the far wall, trying to make out the posted marks from a distance. Squinting, she tried to bring the words into focus.

Moments later, a shadow fell across the table. Expecting Balthier, she glanced up, and froze. _Jiraj_ – this close to Bartaan's tavern, she should have expected to encounter _someone_ she had known.

" _Penelo_ ," Jiraj said in a jovial tone, his meaty fist wrapped around a tankard of ale. "Fancy meetin' you out here. Would've thought you'd hightail it out of Rozarria. What with havin' walked out on a debt and all that."

She hadn't seen him since just before Balthier had rescued her, hadn't thought she'd ever see him again. "Jiraj," she said. "You know as well as anyone else it wasn't mine to pay."

"Don't know that that mattered to anyone but you," he said. "And I never got that rematch."

"You won't, either," she said flatly, more than a little irritated at the unwanted reminder of the life of drudgery she had all too recently left behind.

A hoarse laugh rustled in his throat, attracting attention from the neighboring tables. "Bartaan was right – you got too much pride. Someone shoulda knocked it out of you."

"Are you offering?" she asked. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Balthier standing at the bar, a folded wad of papers in his hand. He seemed to have concluded his business with the owner, but he waited there, watching the exchange between her and Jiraj. He lifted his brows as if in subtle inquiry – a silent message intended to offer assistance had she need of it. She gave a slow shake of her head, and he settled back against the bar to wait.

He'd probably still leap in if she got in over her head, but he trusted her to handle her own affairs. Again, that alarming flutter in her chest – she liked him best like this; not designating himself her protector or guardian or anything of that unsettlingly paternalistic nature. Instead a partner, at her side when and if she needed him.

Jiraj chortled. "I guess I just might be," he said. She thrust back her chair, sinking into a fighting stance – but rather than launch an attack, Jiraj only turned away, heading across the room toward the door, polishing off the last of his ale as he went, discarding the empty tankard at an unoccupied table. On his way he passed by the notice board and tore down a poster, folding it up and tucking it into his vest. He didn't even glance back as he jerked the door open and left the tavern.

As the patrons settled back into their conversations, Balthier crossed the room to her. "I recognize him from your tavern," he said. "What did he want?"

"I _thought_ he wanted to cause trouble," she said, a vague sense of unease settling over her like a cloak. "Did you see what he pulled off the notice board?"

"I'm afraid not." He held aloft the stack of papers. "But at the very least, I've got what we've come for. Shall we?"

"I suppose so." Her gaze swept over the room, reading the atmosphere. She'd spent too long in a tavern not to recognize the contemplative hush, the strange way that the eyes of the other patrons flickered away from hers as if trying to hold on to a secret. "Let's go," she said, with no small amount of urgency. "Something's going on, and I don't want to stick around to find out what it is."

She was aware of the myriad eyes that followed them as they headed for the exit, could feel them boring into the back of her head. It was a relief to get back out into the breezy night, where only a few travelers crossed their paths. Still, she couldn't quite tamp down the unease – she started when Balthier's hand settled on her shoulder.

"All right?" he asked.

She let out a breath. "I don't know," she said. And then, slightly ashamed of her rush to judgment, "I mean, it's probably nothing."

"You've got good instincts," he said. "Use them. What does your gut tell you?"

She couldn't recall the last time she had been encouraged in that fashion. She was accustomed to being disregarded, to having her concerns dismissed as overreaction. That Balthier held enough respect for her to seek her opinion was new and intoxicating and a little bit heart-warming.

Maybe a _lot_ heart-warming.

She said, "I don't like the way they were looking at us. I've seen that kind of quiet before, and it generally means trouble." A moment of hesitation. "Jiraj said something about knocking the pride out of me. I thought he meant to start a brawl, but instead he tore a poster from the notice board and left. I wish I had gotten a look at it."

"Hmm," Balthier murmured. "Perhaps it merits a bit of investigation. I shall make a few discreet inquiries tomorrow; some things are best done in the daylight hours." His fingers skated down her arm to link with hers, squeezing with comforting reassurance.

"You don't think I'm overreacting?" she ventured.

"Of course not," he said. "Between the two of us, you are better equipped to judge a suspicious situation in a tavern. I don't frequent them often enough to read a room half so well as you."

Her heart gave a painful beat in her chest. She ducked her head to hide her face, afraid that the silly burst of elation his words roused might be writ across it. The pier gave way to sand beneath her feet; the _Strahl_ came into view along the shoreline.

"You didn't interfere when Jiraj approached me," she said in a hesitant tone.

His brows drew together. "Should I have done?" he asked. "You seemed to have the situation well enough in hand. I thought you would prefer to handle it yourself."

"I would. I mean, I did." She puffed her bangs out of her face and took a deep breath. "No one's cared much about what I wanted in the past few years." She paused a moment, reflecting. "Or really much of ever. And I usually just went along, because it was the path of least resistance. But I'm not that person anymore; I can't just follow."

"I would not expect it of you." His voice was laden with bewilderment.

" _I know_ ," she said. "I know, and that's why…" She swallowed hard in an attempt to ease the tightness in her throat. "Why I think that I might…love you. A little bit."

His fingers went lax in hers, drifting free of the clasp of her hand. Mystified by his lack of acknowledgment, she risked a glance at his face. His confusion had fled, replaced instead by a taut jaw and a face deliberately blanked of emotion.

That tightness in her throat that she'd made great strides in vanquishing came right back, clamping down until even her breath struggled through it. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. "Balthier?" she asked. "Did you –"

"I heard." His voice was pitched low, only just audible over the rush of the rising tide, and utterly lacking in inflection. "Now is not the time."

"But –"

He forged on ahead without her, his longer strides eating up the shoreline between them and the _Strahl_ , stopping only once he'd reached it, and just long enough to punch in the code to open the ship. And then he had disappeared inside, and she was left to bring up the rear on her own.

After closing the ship up once again, she found him rooting around the kitchen, muttering beneath his breath. She had thought – given what Fran had lead her to believe – that he would be pleased. That he might have something to say that wasn't _now is not the time_. Something that might've given her even the slightest bit of encouragement.

Instead, he slammed cabinets and jostled bottles, in an unsettling sort of temper. Somehow she had made a terrible mistake. Her confession could not have been _less_ welcome. She was tempted to turn tail and run, to hide in her room and lick her wounds.

But that would have been the coward's way out. And she didn't want to be that – not even if it was easier than facing unpleasantness, not even if running would mean that she could avoid the inevitable hurt.

Instead she steeled herself for the coming blow, and said in as firm a voice as she could muster, "I'm sorry if I've offended you. I won't say it again."

He had found what he had sought – a bottle of liquor that had been shoved to the back of a cabinet and was coated with dust, attesting to its age and disuse. He didn't even go to the bother of finding a suitable glass; he merely twisted off the cap and downed a mouthful.

"I'm not offended," he said, in a voice roughed by the spirits he'd imbibed. "I'm furious." He abandoned the bottle on the counter, his footsteps echoing in a sharp, heavy rhythm as he stalked toward her.

She lifted her chin, uncowed. "That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think? I've apologized –"

His harsh laughter silenced her. "But for what, I wonder? In fact…" He moved with lightning speed, boxing her in, and she felt her shoulders touch the wall as he backed her up against it. "I wonder if you've got even the faintest idea of why I might be furious with you."

His hands came up to slide into her hair, cupping the back of her head. She lifted her arms to brace herself, but he struck before she could do more than flatten her palms on his chest, and she whimpered beneath the onslaught of his lips on hers. The sharp tang of whiskey lingered on his tongue, not unpleasant, but an unwelcome reminder that her confession had driven him to drink. She reeled in confusion – why, then, if he had been so upset by her confession, had he decided to kiss her? But she couldn't bring herself to do anything more than scrape her nails across his shirtfront.

It might very well be the very last kiss, and she didn't want to squander it.

When at last he drew away, they were both breathing heavily. His eyes blazed at her, still furious. "You _think_ you _might_ love me a _bit_ ," he snarled. "I've no use for such a tepid degree of emotion; I won't settle for whatever scraps of it you care to parcel out. I want _everything_."

Before she could muster a response, he released her, turning on his heel to stride away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.


	26. Chapter 26

He didn't know what he was asking for. He wanted her to take a flying leap off a cliff purely on faith that he would catch her before she hit the ground. She had been thinking more along the lines of dipping her toes in the water and keeping a lookout for sharks.

 _Everything_ , he'd said. She wondered if he had any idea of how dangerous _everything_ seemed to her. How little confidence she had in her own judgment, how every emotion, every move, every decision was fraught with uncertainty.

The chains of her past weighed heavily upon her still; she could practically feel that manacle cinched about her ankle once more, dragging her down, pinning her in place. She was no freer now than she had been the last three years. Even relieved of the iron cuff, she had made little progress. It was as if her wings had been clipped, and she was afraid to even try what she was certain would be a futile attempt at flight.

She'd left the tavern behind, but it had not left her. The lessons she had learned chattered without cease at the back of her mind, turning everything sour and grey. She didn't know if she'd ever escape them, but…with Balthier, they were a bit quieter, a bit dimmer. Less of a dull roar and more of an insidious whisper.

She had spent so long steeped in misery, collecting only what gil she could scrounge and scratch marks upon a wall to mark the passing days, that she had forgotten how to be happy. It seemed to her now an ephemeral thing, a mirage in the desert – always slipping through her fingers before she could grasp it until at last she had stopped trying. It was self-preservation, really; that old staple of her youth upon which she had relied for so long. To achieve a measure of peace, she had only had to cease wanting things she knew she could not have.

Now it dangled before her once again, ostensibly there for the taking, but the sheer effort it would take to have faith in it was staggering. And it had never seemed so close before – but experience had taught her not even to reach for it, to simply let her eyes slide away and pretend she hadn't noticed it at all. If it proved as fickle and faithless as it had in the past, it would destroy her.

But despite it all, _she wanted to believe_. She wanted to believe in that not-too-distant happiness, the one she could almost glimpse rising on the horizon. The happiness that waited in spite of everything, the kind of happiness that could outlast the end of the world.

Real chains might be removed with something so simple as a key, but the phantom ones that dragged on her were a different beast entirely. She could only hope that she would find the strength to cast them off herself before they became a permanent fixture, destroying any chance at happiness she might someday find the courage to pursue. And she would have to do her own due diligence and chip away at the links as best she could.

She suspected Balthier would be only too happy to lend his assistance – if her constant vacillation didn't drive him away before she could work up the courage to request it.

* * *

Balthier had been attempting to sleep, with no success – the scent of her citrus soap lingered upon his pillows and clung to his sheets, but they lacked the warmth of her skin, and he had grown accustomed to the press of her body against his, her hair tickling his face, her arm draped across his chest. He'd finally given up and had simply slung an arm over his eyes, waiting for dawn to come.

Though the door didn't make so much as creak as it slid open, Balthier was aware of her presence even before the faint light from the hallway crept across the floor. He always knew when she was close, somehow, with a sort of instinctual awareness.

He heard the soft _click_ of the door closing, the pad of her bare feet across the wood floor. She paused at the edge of the bed, and there was the puff of her breath on a heavy exhale.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked in an uncertain murmur.

"Yes," he growled. She was close enough that he could smell her soap; not the flat remnants of it that his pillows carried, but the sweet tang warmed by the heat of her skin.

"Oh." It was just a muted whisper, almost swallowed up into silence before it reached his ears. She drew in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have bothered you."

He snatched at her wrist before she could turn away. " _Yes_ , I'm still angry," he reiterated. "But…as I cannot seem to sleep without you, you might as well stay."

For a moment he thought she would refuse, would turn tail and run – but apparently she was made of sterner stuff than she once had been. Despite the hesitance with which she had approached him, she did not shy away, even in the face of his anger, and he wondered if he had in fact earned a measure of her trust.

He moved over to make room for her as she shed her clothing, and lifted the covers for her to climb underneath. Her head settled onto the pillow beside his, and for a few moments she lay, still and quiet, separated entirely from him by some inches. There was only the soft sigh of her breath, the scent of her hair, and the gradual warming of the covers beside him to attest to her presence at all.

By slow degrees she shifted, encroaching upon the space that separated them. At last she was close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder, and he felt the covers move as she reached out her hand and tentatively placed it on his chest.

She thought she would be rebuffed, he realized. She had been testing the waters, trying to reason out for herself where his invisible line had been drawn so as not to stumble past it and risk a humiliating set-down. She wanted to be close to him as much as he wanted to be close to her. That much, at least, he could take heart in.

She drew back abruptly when he moved, likely thinking she had gone a step too far, pulling away to surrender back to him the space that she had gained.

"Stop that," he said, as she fluffed the blankets around herself in an insulating layer, crumpling them between the two of them to add another barrier. He fished beneath the blankets for her, sliding his arm over her waist and pressing it against her back, dragging her across the bed until she hitched up against him with a small sound of surprise. Settling onto his back, he caught her hand in his, adjusting her arm across his chest. Her head found that perfect place in the curve of his shoulder, and he felt her breath escape on a sigh of relief.

He turned his head, brushing a kiss to her forehead. "I always want you here," he said. "Even when I'm angry."

She made a contented sound in the back of her throat and turned her face against his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make you angry," she murmured, her voice muffled against him.

"I know." He slid his arm beneath her, wrapping it around her to trail his fingers along her side.

"I don't want to be a coward." Her voice was at once plaintive and aggravated. "I don't know how _not_ to be." Her fingernails scraped across his chest with a light pressure. "I don't want you to think that I don't trust you – it's just that I don't trust _anyone_. I don't know how anymore."

"You don't trust _yourself_ ," he corrected gently.

She hesitated a moment, her fingers stilling on his chest. At last she nodded, heaving a great sigh. "I have choices now that I thought I'd never have," she said in a dull tone. "But I've forgotten how to make them. I can't see past the present. I don't know how to unlearn living a day at a time, how to start thinking about the future instead."

"Burdened with an overabundance of choices," he murmured. "I suppose it must be daunting." Her cheek rubbed his shoulder as she nodded. He said, "Suppose you reduce them down to their most basic components. There are any number of things you might do, but they all hinge upon two options: do you stay with me, or do you go your own way?"

"Stay," she said immediately. "I like it here." Her fingertips drummed a delicate rhythm upon his chest. And though she left it unsaid, he knew that she meant that she liked being with _him_.

Unconsciously his fingers had traveled back up her arm to sift through the soft blond hank of hair that had slipped over her shoulder, rubbing it between them. "Not so difficult after all, is it?" he asked.

Her breath puffed out, warm on his throat. Her hand came to a rest, flattening over his heart as if the steady beat of it beneath her palm was soothing. "I can't be wrong again," she said at last, in a pained whisper. "I really don't think I could take it."

There was nothing he could say to mitigate that fear, nothing he could do except to give her time to acclimate herself, to find her direction. Too often recently she had been sent reeling, and if she felt compelled to grasp for whatever sense of stability she could, it was only to be expected.

Fran had suggested that he ought to acquire a modicum of patience. And yet, it wasn't in his nature to leave matters unsettled. A pirate to the core, he had become accustomed to _taking_ – to helping himself to whatever opportunities crossed his path, and damning the consequences. Penelo was not an object to be snatched up; she required delicate handling, a light touch, and most important of all, the time and space to come to a decision on her own. Pressure on his part would only cast her once again beneath an avalanche of uncertainty.

"I _do_ love you," she murmured.

"But not enough," he countered dryly. "Not nearly enough." He turned, rolling her to her back, pausing to brush her hair away from her face before he levered himself over her. He was gratified to note that she shifted to accommodate him, wriggling within the cage of his arms until she settled with a sigh. He braced himself on one forearm, slid his free hand beneath her neck. "I wish that you could see yourself as I do," he said.

Even in the darkness, he could see the face she pulled, scrunching her nose up in denial. "I'm not special," she said flatly, not fishing for compliments but instead stating facts as she saw them. "I pass for fair at best. We both know you could do better. _Have_ done better, I should probably say."

He chuckled, touching his forehead to hers. "Agree to disagree," he said. "But that isn't what I meant."

Her hands settled on his shoulders, tracing lazy patterns with her fingertips. Brows drawn, she said, "I don't understand."

"When first we met," he said, "I thought you were perhaps the only truly decent person I'd encountered in the whole of my life."

She wriggled a bit, as if uncomfortable with the praise. "You know, I always thought you hated me, at least a little. You made it pretty clear that you didn't want me around."

"I didn't," he said, chuckling as she made an irritated sound in the back of her throat. "You were dangerous. And…I didn't want you in the line of fire. I didn't want you to see the sort of brutality and bloodshed that we were certain to experience. I didn't want it to touch you, to change you. And yet, you were determined to wade straight into the thick of it anyway."

"I had to," she said, a touch defensively. "I couldn't –"

"I know," he said. "Do you know, you were the only one of us with noble intentions? You came out of love and loyalty alone. Not for revenge or reward or glory. You were better than all of us. You were…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Bright," he concluded. "You were the light leading us through the darkness. You fostered camaraderie between the rest of us, motley crew that we were. You bolstered flagging spirits more times than I could possibly count. You held us all together when we might've floundered."

She pursed her lips, puffed out a dismissive breath. "I think you're giving me too much credit."

"And I think you give yourself too little." He dipped to plant a swift kiss at the corner of her mouth. "You had a brave heart, an adventurous spirit, inexhaustible enthusiasm, and an inexplicable way of making the ordinary seem extraordinary. I thought you were magnificent."

"I thought you were a bit of an ass," she muttered, and he ducked his head to muffle his laughter in the pillow, his shoulders shaking with it.

" _A bit of an ass_ ," he echoed, when he could speak once more. "I think I like that. Certainly I've been called worse."

"Well, it's true," she huffed, even as she draped her arms about his neck. "You know you were. You were so determined to let everyone think the worst of you."

"Darling, I am a _pirate_. Espousing kindness and generosity would hardly have done my reputation any favors," he chided. "Perhaps you've not enough experience with pirating as of yet, but let me assure you those are at the very _bottom_ of the list of traits desirable in a pirate."

"They're desirable to me," she said. After a moment of contemplation, she added, "Trustworthiness. That's also important."

"I suppose you'll expect honesty as well," he grumbled.

"It goes hand in hand with trustworthy," she said, her lips twitching into a cheeky grin.

He gave a long-suffering sigh, as if she might as well have asked for the moon. "And are there any other requirements you'd care to share?"

She gave a sheepish shrug. "Patience?" she suggested.

He slanted her a suspicious look, and she knew he was wondering if she might've eavesdropped on his conversation with Fran. But despite his suspicions, he kept his silence on the matter. "Very well," he said. "Patience. It's not a quality with which I am overly familiar…but I suppose that even old pirates might be prevailed upon to learn new skills. Not often, mind you – but occasionally, when a situation calls for it."

A flutter of laughter escaped her, and she shifted beneath him draw her knee up, sliding her leg along his in a manner that suggested she would soon be tiring of conversation. "Does the situation call for it, then?"

"I suppose it must," he said. "I'm exhibiting patience, am I not?"

"At the moment," she said, "I think you could do with just a _bit_ less." The silky skin of her thighs hugged his hips, and she performed an enticing wiggle, which elicited a predictable response.

His brows lifted. "Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

"I'm _implying_ that I don't feel very much like talking right now. And, er…neither do you."

"You little witch, you _provoked_ that –" He broke off on a groan as she tilted her hips, and her intimate flesh made brief, delicious contact with his. The exquisite friction and heat sent a tremor down his spine. "That was _not fair_ ," he managed, in a distinctly guttural tone.

She pressed her lips together against an unwise burst of laughter. Her fingernails scraped his skin, and his every nerve ending sizzled at the sensation. When she leaned up, her breasts flattened against his chest, and her sharp little teeth nipped at his lower lip. "You were saying?" she murmured.

"Blast you, I can't remember," he growled. But he was already fisting his fingers in her hair, gently tugging her head back to expose the column of her throat. That sweet and tart citrus scent assailed him, strongest where her pulse beat, making his head spin. And he was helpless but to press his lips there, worshipping the smooth satin of her skin, feeling the satisfied purr that tripped up her throat well before he heard it.

Only too recently she had been timid, shy, uncertain in matters of physical intimacy. She had been content to let him lead, following only when she was certain she wished to proceed down the path he forged ahead. Now she moved in a dance of her own invention, in the sure, perfect rhythm of confidence relearned. And he moved to her music, the notes comprised of her soft sighs, the rests of the hitches in her breathing whenever he ferreted out a particularly sensitive spot.

Her hands splayed across his back, her fingers flexing in building tension. Her breath feathered out near his ear on a plaintive sigh; she embraced him with the whole of her body, her thighs nipping tight about his hips. She murmured his name in an entreating tone, rolling her hips in blatant invitation, seeking the perfect combination of friction and pressure.

A whine of frustration built in her throat as she gradually realized that he had been intentionally thwarting her efforts. She fisted her hands in his hair, lifting his head from her breast to frown into his face.

"Do you think you might _hurry up_?" she asked.

He shook her hands free, smothering his laughter against the side of her throat. "Perhaps I'm not the only one who could benefit from a lesson in patience," he suggested, skating his fingertips down her stomach. He lifted his head to watch her eyes grow hazy in anticipation of his touch, her little white teeth worrying her lower lip. _Denied_ – he let his fingers get close enough to tantalize and no further before he reversed his direction. She made an infuriated sound in the back of her throat, every muscle clenching in outraged annoyance.

He had been banking on his superior strength and weight to keep her pinned in place – he had not factored her determination into his equation. She bucked beneath him, managing to lift him the scant few inches she needed to wriggle into a better position. Her hands coasted down his back to sink her claws into his rear, lifting her hips as she yanked his, and his breath whooshed from his lungs as she conquered his cruel resistance and her silky flesh enveloped him.

Her sigh of pleasure was cut abruptly short as he slid his palm beneath her knee, pressing up to halt her relentless wriggling. Inside, she contracted upon him, struggling to keep hold, and she thumped his back with her fists, eliciting a laugh from him.

Her knee flexed in his hand. A growl escaped her tight throat, and she dropped her head back onto the pillow, pressing her hands over her eyes as her mouth screwed up into a scowl. "I was right," she muttered with sulky petulance. "You _are_ an ass."

"Enough, you impertinent chit," he said, brushing a kiss across her forehead. He eased her knee higher, provoking a confused murmur from her. "All right?"

She nodded, her brows drawn together, needling his shoulder with her nails. At last he pressed forward, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Her breath shuddered out, the changed angle more intense than she had been prepared for. Her free hand fisted in the pillow beside her head, her mouth opened and rounded on a gasp of surprise.

He moved in slow increments, fighting the clutch of her slick inner muscles that threatened to coerce him into spending before he was ready. And by the time he had come to rest, sweat had burnished his skin and she was panting as if she could no longer fill her lungs.

"Oh," she managed between desperate breaths, her eyes dazed, her whole body trembling with unrelieved tension. She shifted as if compelled into the motion. He had thought he could go no further, but that tiny motion proved him wrong. Her back arched, and a cry wrenched itself from her throat.

For half a moment he thought he had hurt her – until her inner flesh bore down on him, squeezing in lush, rhythmic contractions. Not agony – _release_ _._ She squirmed, her hips surging to his in her abandon, her face a mask of tortured delight. Spurred into motion by the demands of her body, he drew back and lunged, her broken breaths a sweet song in his ears. Her head tossed on the pillow, her thighs tightened on him, her nails raked the sheets, scrabbling for purchase.

His control fractured, but she didn't seem to mind his relentless drive for completion. Climax struck with force of a hurricane, swift and sudden, and he could only ride it out, shuddering as he panted through the storm. He felt her hands in his hair, stroking through the sweat-dampened strands. When he could finally trouble himself to move, he eased her knee back down to settle himself against her, sliding his arms beneath her and pillowing his head on her breasts.

"You greedy girl," he chided. "You were supposed to wait for me."

Beneath his head, he felt her lungs expand as she drew in a huge breath and yawned. "Oops," she said, too tired to manage even the smallest concession towards sounding apologetic. Slowly her fingers ceased to come soothingly through his hair, and he knew she had fallen asleep at last.

He supposed he ought to be gratified somewhat that she trusted him this much, that she could sleep peacefully in his arms, that she had chosen to stay with him. Instead, he found himself mired in discontentment. He might've accused her of greed, but between the two of them, _he_ was by far the more avaricious. He had never been content with a fraction of _anything_ when he might simply steal the whole. He could never be content with the half-hearted love she had offered him. But his aptitude for thieving and pirating would avail him nothing; he could not steal her heart. It had to be freely given.

He eased onto his side lest he grow too heavy for her, pleased that she turned with him, sighing as she tucked her head beneath his chin and draped her leg over his, snuggling against his chest. _Patience_ , he reminded himself. She only needed time.

* * *

Penelo made an irritable sound as Balthier extracted himself from the tangle of her limbs as he slid toward the edge of the bed. "It's too early," she muttered petulantly.

" _Now_ who's grumpy in the morning?" He snickered, brushing her hair away from her face to drop a kiss on her cheek. "You needn't rouse yourself just yet. I'm only going into Tarram to make some inquiries regarding recent wanted posters. I shouldn't be more than an hour."

"Do it later," she mumbled. "It's barely light out." That wasn't strictly true, but she reasoned that if she didn't open her eyes, she couldn't be disproved.

A laugh rumbled in his chest. "It's gone half ten already," he said. "A respectable hour to rise even by my standards." The bed dipped as he sat at the edge of tug on his boots. "Be grateful I am kinder to you than you are to me; I _could_ simply pester you into rising as well, as you are wont to do."

"At least I make coffee for you," she grumbled, rolling across the bed to curl herself around him. The glossy leather of his vest was cool against her skin. She locked her arms around his waist. "I don't want you to go. It's cold."

"Darling," he said, in a placating tone as he detached her arms from around him, and pushed her to her back. "You've kicked off most of the covers; that's why it's cold." Grabbing up fistfuls of the blankets, he tucked them back around her. "I won't be gone long," he reiterated. "This sort of thing is best done in the light of day, and I'd rather do it alone – lest we encounter another of your victims."

"Hmph." She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. "They're not my _victims_ , they're just idiots who deserved a little retribution. It's not _my_ fault they didn't hide their gil better."

"Somehow," he said, "I doubt any of them would see it the same way." His hands landed on either side of her as he leaned over. "A kiss for luck?" he suggested.

With a huff of irritation, she flopped onto her back. "Fine," she said. She pursed her lips, leaning up to press a swift peck to his lips, then rolled right back onto her stomach.

"That's my girl." He stroked his fingers through her hair.

The bed settled as he stood, and she heard the _click_ of his boots across the floor. And for some reason, she still didn't want to let him leave. Not when she'd failed to manage a single uncross word to him in the short time she'd been awake.

But she didn't know what to say. It seemed there was a whole host of words crammed into her mind, any combination of which might've been acceptable enough. And the ones she _really_ wanted to say wouldn't come. Instead she settled on, "Come back soon."

She heard his low chuckle, just as he opened the door. "Quick as I can," he said. "That's a promise." And the door closed behind him, and he was gone.


	27. Chapter 27

Penelo woke to the buzz of the communications system, startling her out of a sound sleep. She heaved a sigh and rolled over, burying her face in the pillows. Balthier would answer it.

A minute or so passed, and the irritating sound continued unabated. A shiver of unease crept down her spine. Why hadn't he answered it? She thrust off the tangled mass of blankets, shoving herself upright to squint at the clock on the wall. It had gone half past noon already…hadn't Balthier said that his errand shouldn't take more than an hour?

Except for the incessant buzzing of the communications system, the ship was utterly silent. No percolating coffee, no footfalls, none of the normal, everyday sounds that would attest to anyone else's presence. It took only a matter of moments to complete a cursory search of the ship up to the deck. She was alone; Balthier hadn't made it back from Tarram. The unease solidified into a knot of distress in her stomach. He'd said an hour, and he'd meant it – he had never lied to her.

If he hadn't returned, it wasn't because he'd simply lost track of time. It was because _something_ had prevented him from returning.

A quick glance at the console revealed that the call was coming from the _Galbana_ , and she breathed a sigh of relief. Fran – Fran would know what to do. She dropped into the captain's chair and punched the button to connect the line.

"Oh, thank the gods!" Yulia's harried voice sailed over the speakersbefore Penelo could even get out a greeting. "When you didn't answer, we thought for certain we were too late."

Alarm drew Penelo's shoulders tight and tense. "Too late for what?" she asked in a rough whisper.

"Penelo?" There was hint of surprise in Yulia's voice. "I thought – Balthier is with you, isn't he?"

"No. No, he's not. He left this morning and he hasn't come back. He should have been back more than an hour ago, but he isn't, and I..." With alarming swiftness, her sleep-fogged brain cleared enough to connect the two occurrences: Balthier's disappearance and Yulia's frantic call. Her hands curled on the armrests, nails carving crescents into the wood. "Too late for _what_?" she repeated.

Yulia's tone went brisk and business-like. "Where are you now? Can you send us your coordinates? Fran and Vaan are assembling supplies as we speak. We'll meet you as soon as we can, but you mustn't go _anywhere_."

"Yulia, tell me what's going on." Despite the icy pit of fear settled in her stomach, her mind was calm and blank, like a slate wiped clean. There was no room for panic; there was only a laser focus on the matter at hand. Everyone else knew more than she did, and she couldn't be of any use if she fell to pieces.

A heavy sigh preceded Yulia's voice. "Just this morning we were in a tavern in Balfonheim," she said. "And I happened to see the notice board. I'd never been in a tavern before, you see, and I was curious about it. So I went to take a look, and I found…I found a poster for _you_."

"For _me_?" Penelo lurched in the seat, baffled. "But…I'm fine. _Balthier's_ the one who's gone missing."

" _Yes_ , and that's precisely why you must stay where you are. Don't leave the ship; don't let anyone aboard. We'll sort this out –"

"Who's the petitioner?" Penelo asked.

"It doesn't say," Yulia said. "It simply says to collect the reward at the Sword and Crown tavern in Rozarria." A brief hesitation. "There's more," she said. "Lord Larsa sent a message yesterday. He said that Asraen has slipped his guards and fled Archades. I wasn't terribly concerned then – but now, with that poster…"

"Oh, gods." Penelo swallowed convulsively in a futile attempt to clear the sour taste of bile that had risen with the swift onset of nervous nausea. "It's Raen. It's _got_ to be him behind this."

"If he is, I'm going to shoot him myself," Yulia snapped. "I'm beginning to believe I'd make a better widow than a divorcée." She made an infuriated sound in the back of her throat. "You _cannot_ leave the ship," she said. "If they've taken him, it's likely only to separate the two of you and draw you out. You cannot let them succeed."

"He'd have been back by now if he hadn't been taken. And if he's been taken, he's helpless – they'll have stripped him of weapons, probably bound him up, too. And they don't _need_ him. They'll kill him. _Raen_ will kill him." Penelo rubbed her cold cheeks, willing some feeling back into her face. Realization struck with the force of a blow. "Raen _will_ kill him. With Balthier out of the way, he could probably petition the courts for Balthier's inheritance."

Yulia snorted. "He'd never get away with it – he'd be the first suspect in his death."

"Yes," Penelo said. "Which is why there's a petition out on _me_ , not Balthier – there's no paper trail to connect him to Balthier's death. He can get rid of the both of us in one fell swoop. No credible witnesses, no mess to tidy up."

The crackle of static over the line burned her ears. At last Yulia said, "We're coming straight away. We'll get this sorted, I promise."

Balthier had promised he would return in only an hour. However unintentionally, promises were so fragile, so easy to break.

Penelo rubbed the back of her neck, but failed to relieve the tightness in the muscles there. "It'll take hours. We both know Balthier might not have that much time. I've waited too long already."

"Penelo, _please_ don't do anything rash," Yulia pleaded. "You don't even know where they've taken him, or what they intend to do with him!"

"I know," she said. "I know. And that's why I've got to let them take me, too. It's the best chance Balthier's got. Besides," she said. "I think I know who's captured Balthier." She pushed herself out of the chair. "Don't worry about me. Go straight to the Sword and Crown and see if it really _is_ Raen. And, please _…_ hurry."

"Penelo, _wait_ –"

She pressed the button to disconnect the line, cutting off Yulia's frantic plea. And then she rose and stalked down the hall to begin preparations for her own kidnapping.

* * *

Balthier stared at the wall, counting the tick marks scratched into the dull wood for the third time since he'd awakened. His head ached abominably, but at least his blurred vision had at last corrected itself. He'd not been anticipating an attack in Tarram, where it was considered poor form to requisition bounties from amongst visitors. Such an act could even find one declared _persona non grata_ from the pirating town, and thus he had assumed the bounty on his head must be very high indeed, for whoever had undertaken the task had been prepared to risk banishment.

He ought to have known better; his capture had been his own fault, the results of his own arrogance in assuming himself untouchable in Tarram. And it had left Penelo alone and vulnerable.

He might've taken comfort in the fact that the petitioner that had put a bounty on his head clearly did not mean to kill him – were it not for the fact that he had found himself in exactly the same predicament he had once rescued Penelo from.

One thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven tick marks lined the walls. Penelo had inhabited this drab, dingy room for as many days, marking each of them upon the walls, probably with the edge of her nails. Three years she had lived here – if one could call it living, which Balthier was not inclined to do. The thin pallet on the floor against the wall had been her bed. There was neither pillow nor blanket to speak of. The room itself was hardly larger than a storage closet. How had she survived this? He'd been trapped her only a matter of hours, and already he suspected his sanity was slipping.

And he might yet be forced to endure it for some time. It would take a few hours for Penelo to realize that he would not be returning – longer still for her to convene with Fran, and who could say _how_ long it would take for them to track him down?

It had taken him years, after all. Although perhaps amongst the lot of them, they were likely to arrive at the correct conclusion in significantly less time.

With any luck, it would be beforethe iron manacle fastened around his ankle had had the chance to leave lasting scars.

The thud of heavy footsteps coming down the hall reached him in time for him to move away from the door just seconds before it crashed open, slamming against the wall and sending a shower of splinters and dust bursting across the room.

Bartaan crossed the threshold, scowling at Balthier as he entered the room. "On your feet," he snarled. "Tavern's getting busy; you've got to earn your keep around here."

"You _can't_ be serious," Balthier said, scorn dripping from every syllable.

"You cost me my serving girl," Bartaan replied. "You might as well replace her."

Balthier pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. "You put a bounty on my head simply to put me to work?"

Bartaan's brow furrowed. "There's no bounty on your head," he said. "Call it a happy accident. Jiraj nabbed you to lure Penelo out of hiding; I took you off his hands. Seemed fitting."

"You've struck a poor bargain, then, for I could not be induced to labor on your behalf did my life depend upon it," Balthier sneered in response.

"Oh?" Bartaan's bushy brows receded into his hairline. "I kept Penelo in line for three years; I doubt you'll be much more trouble than she was." He folded his arms across his massive chest. "You got too much pride, same as her. But there's no one alive that can't be broken, given the right motivation."

"I'll remind you of the last time we sparred," Balthier snarled. "Better men than you have tried and failed."

Bartaan gave a rusty laugh and a smirk that stung in its certainty. "I got no need to bash your head in," Bartaan said. "It's bad for business. Can't work if you're beat too badly, and I don't care to risk injury m'self. Besides, hunger'll get you soon enough." He crossed the threshold, still chuckling to himself. "Penelo lasted six days with naught in her stomach but her pride. But from what I understood, she was used to hunger. Someone like you – I doubt you'll make it two."

* * *

Penelo counted at least three avenues of escape, which was less than ideal but enough to work with, should this confrontation not go to plan. Her stomach was in knots – the very idea of returning once more to the Sword and Crown was terrifying. She could almost feel the manacle once again weighting her steps, and every time the thought of it crossed her mind, she broke out in a cold sweat.

It went against every instinct for self-preservation she possessed to knowingly walk into a trap. It was quite possibly the stupidest, most illogical thing she would ever do, and yet even knowing that she might very well find herself trapped once again within the very situation she had only recently escaped, she could not regret her decision.

Balthier had rescued her once before. He had given her weeks of freedom, had restored her battered pride and taught her that she had value far beyond that which Raen had ascribed to her. If it might save Balthier, she would sacrifice herself time and time again.

Because she had been lying to herself – it was impossible to love him only a little. It had simply been easier to think of it that way, to convince herself that she was still her own person, unhindered by so fickle an emotion. She hadn't _wanted_ it, but it had gotten its hooks into her anyway, clawing beneath her skin to carve his name on her heart. A chain of an entirely different variety, and one she would wear happily for the rest of her life if only he lived through this.

She took a shuddering breath and shoved that intrusive thought aside – she had to believe that he was alive and unharmed. It was the only thing that kept her mind and her determination on the task at hand rather than falling prey to fear. Balthier's life hung in the balance, and she needed to be the strategist he was, to stay three steps ahead while allowing her adversary to believe he had the advantage.

Jiraj had been following her for some time, at a discreet distance. She had made a circuit of Tarram, inquiring after Balthier with the various merchants and shopkeepers in the city, generally attracting as much attention as she could manage in order to draw Jiraj out. Now she had only to destroy his illusion of stealth and call him out here on the shore near the _Strahl_ , to which she could still flee if he failed to provide the answers she sought.

Jiraj was of middling intelligence at best, wont to tout his own prowess with little regard for the fact that some information would serve him better if he kept it quiet. She had played to his vanity and pride many times before; she had little doubt she could manipulate him into unwise admissions yet again.

Away from the city, he had grown bolder, secure in the surety of his conquest. He was only some twenty paces behind her, now, and steadily gaining ground. She used the squish of his heavy boots in the soft sand to account for her attention to him, whirling about to face him.

"Jiraj," she said, striving to infuse her voice with just the right amount of suspicion. She touched the belt at her waist, wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the dagger sheathed there, and narrowed her eyes at him. A moment passed in utter silence; he had come to a halt, a gleeful grin wreathing his face, already reveling in his victory.

She cleared her throat. "My traveling companion's gone missing," she said. "I don't suppose you've seen him?"

That grin grew wider, exposing his crooked teeth. "You coulda been nicer to me," he said. "I was always nice to you, weren't I? If you'd just given me a fair chance at a rematch…" He ambled forward a step; she skittered back two.

"What did you do?" she asked, hissing the words between clenched teeth. "What did you do with him? "

He shrugged. "Offloaded him. Couldn't have him about, mucking things up." The grin was permanently affixed to his face, as if it had been carved into his flesh. Penelo's palms itched to smack it off, but that would hardly get her the answers she so desperately needed.

"Offloaded him?" she asked. A horrible thought rose to mind. "Into the water?" Balthier had warned her of that.

"Naw," he scoffed. "It'd be just my luck if he could swim, wouldn't it, then?" He gave a rough rumble of laughter. "I sold him to Bartaan. Figured he'd want a crack at him, after how he sprung you."

Torn between relief and terror, Penelo hesitated. Bartaan wouldn't kill Balthier, not when there was good gil to be earned off his labor, and he was surely still feeling the sting of the six hundred thousand gil she'd skipped out on. But if, as she suspected, Raen had been behind that anonymously-posted mark... well, a coward at heart he might be, but he was also an opportunist of the first order. Perhaps Balthier hadn't been killed as a fringe benefit of the bounty posted on Penelo, but he _had_ been dragged straight back to the designated meeting place. And while Raen would never challenge Balthier in a fair fight, he would think it a divine stroke of luck to have Balthier trussed up and at his mercy. Raen would kill him without a second thought.

Vaan, Fran, and Yulia were still some hours away – even if she managed to escape Jiraj and fled to the _Strahl_ to wait on them to storm the Sword and Crown, there was every possibility that they would be too late to save Balthier.

 _They might already be too late_.

No! She couldn't think like that; wallowing would serve no purpose. She knew where Balthier was being held, and she knew that Jiraj would take _her_ there, too. It was her best chance – _Balthier's_ best chance.

She was going to have to let him take her – and she was going to have to make it look good, look _real_. It would be real enough, after all…only Jiraj wouldn't know that she had set herself up to be captured.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out the distant cry of gulls, the wash of the surf against the sand. Jiraj hadn't moved yet, but he would – he was only waiting on her, trying to anticipate her actions.

She took a deep breath and snatched the dagger from its sheath. "You can turn and walk away now, and that'll be the end of it," she said. "I don't _want_ to kill you."

A startled laugh built in his throat; he swiped a meaty fist across his eyes as if to brush away tears of mirth. "Come off it," he said. "You? Kill _me_?" He wheezed with his amusement. "You got a high opinion of yourself."

She backed a step away, just enough to give the impression that she was all bluster and no bite. He knew her only as Bartaan's serving girl – he might've witnessed a handful of scraps she'd been involved in, but they had always been shut down relatively quickly. He had no idea what she'd been capable of before the manacle and chain, nor did he know what she had done since. To him, she was the same leashed pet he had known these last three years – mouthy, but ultimately harmless.

 _Good_.

She erupted into motion only a half-second before he did, whirling about to race towards the _Strahl_. The sand beneath her feet flew into the air, spraying back behind her straight into Jiraj's face. She heard his heavy breaths turn to rasping wheezes as the sand choked his lungs. He made a hacking sound deep in his throat, but his feet still pounded behind her.

His longer strides ate up the distance between them, and he lunged at last across the empty space, seizing her ankle as he fell, his thick fingers clamping directly over the ridge of scar tissue. Her brain blanked, her breath drove itself from her lungs on a screech of instinctual panic. With a vicious jerk, he wrenched her leg out from beneath her – shades of the past all over again. She felt herself falling as if it had happened in slow motion, felt the white-hot surge of helpless fury burning at the back of her skull.

This time, she hit hot sand instead of cool wood. It wasn't much, but it was enough – enough to soothe the automatic fear response that might've sent her headlong into a tailspin of dread.

 _Balthier wasn't here to pull her out of it this time._

She struggled for a deep breath and swiped her arm across her forehead to wipe away the cold sweat that had broken out. Adrenaline coursed through her veins; she rolled onto her back, and Jiraj's fist burned her flesh as she turned her ankle in his tight grip. Before she could regain her breath, Jiraj shoved himself up onto his knees and yanked at her ankle, dragging her towards him. Her shirt rode up, and the sand beneath her scraped her raw. The sun was in her eyes – she kicked out at him blindly, heard his grunt of pain, and assumed she'd caught him somewhere in the midsection. Moments later, his free hand caught her other foot, pinning it to the sand.

"Aw, knock it off; I don't wanna hurt you." His voice was a harsh rasp, but no more than annoyed. He dragged himself up and released her ankles only to straddle her legs – then his palms were running up her thighs, patting her down.

With a shriek of rage, she snarled, "Don't touch me!" Her arm came up as she lashed out, the dagger clutched in her fist sliced cleanly through his forearm. He gave a hiss of pain, and his fingers seized her wrist on the next swipe, prying her fingers open until the dagger dropped to the sand.

His palm cracked across her cheek. She felt her teeth slice into her lower lip, tasted the coppery tang of blood. Her vision blurred for a few seconds, and his hands continued their brisk, efficient pat.

Through the ringing that had taken up residence in her ears, she heard him say, "Just gotta check you for weapons." The pat-down was quick; he had already wrested her dagger from her hand and had no reason to suspect that she would be carrying anything else. He made only a perfunctory examination of the most obvious places; the insides of her boots, her waist, her sleeves.

She dropped her head back into the sand with a groan. He collected her wrists in one hand, looping a length of cord around them, tying the knot so tightly that it chafed her skin.

"Shouldn'ta cut me," he chided. "Wouldn'ta had to hit you if you'd have come along quiet. Don't bother screamin', now. No one'll hear over the ocean." He fisted one hand in her waistband and shoved the other beneath her shoulders, pulling her up and onto her feet.

She stumbled, her head spinning as the world tilted, and she turned her face to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Why?" she managed, though her lips had gone numb and her cheek throbbed. "Who hired you?"

"Dunno," he said. "Poster didn't say. But someone out there's willing to pay a hell of a lot of money for you." He nudged her forward, toward the row of airships docked along the shore. "Whoever it was, he ain't made the Sword and Crown yet." A grating, coarse laugh singed her ears. "And if you're lucky, it'll be a while until he does, and Bartaan'll let you say goodbye to your man before I turn you over. I don't expect you'll be seeing him again otherwise." He made an aggravated sound in his throat as she dragged her feet, carving deep gouges in the sand. Wearying of her snail's pace, he tugged on her bound wrists to halt her progress, and bent down. His shoulder lodged itself in her stomach, driving the air from her lungs once more, and she gave a squeak of distress as her feet left the ground and she dangled upside down, slung over his shoulder. He set off again at a rapid clip, and she bounced with every step, her breath coming in halting wheezes as his shoulder lodged itself in her solar plexus.

Her arms dangled over her head, and she could see only the flat plane of Jiraj's back. The brief flickers of the sand and shore she could glimpse in her peripheral vision made her head spin as they tilted and jumped with each jarring step Jiraj took, and she was forced to close her eyes to quell the motion sickness that threatened.

At last Jiraj paused beside a ship, and Penelo was able to draw in air that wasn't promptly forced right back out of her lungs. A creaky clanging sound screeched through the air, and a fine plume of sand was tossed up around them, blowing into her face and sticking to the sweat that had collected there. She yanked up her arms and tried to wipe her face clear of it with her sleeve, but the grit remained with each swipe, until her cheeks felt raw and abraded.

Jiraj started forward once again, and beneath his feet she saw a grimy sheet of what had once been an iron ramp, but now resembled a rusted bit of scrap metal. Jiraj's ship was a piece of junk. She experienced a sliver of disdain – for any self-respecting pirate to allow his ship to deteriorate to this condition was unthinkable.

"Ain't as nice as your man's," he said, as if he had sensed her silent judgment, "but she'll get us there."

"I wouldn't put good gil on that bet," she muttered, turning her head to spit out the sand that had worked its way into her mouth.

He jammed his shoulder into her stomach, this time intentionally. "You never speak ill of a man's ship," he said, his voice sour and harsh. The sunlight dimmed as he strode onto the ship, the click of his boots sharp on the uncovered metal floor of the corridor. She'd been on only a few airships in her life, all of them of a class above this one. Vaan's ship was small by conventional standards, but it still managed to contain both sleeping quarters and storage space.

Penelo doubted Jiraj's ship possessed either; there were boxes and crates strewn about the narrow corridor, and Jiraj navigated them with practiced ease even in the low light. Which begged the question – what would he do with her?

He paused just before they reached the deck, and she heard the rusty whine of a latch being pried open, followed by the twist of a knob and the creak of a warped door as it scraped across the floor. Then the world tilted again as he hauled her from his shoulder, planting her on her feet before the dark interior of a shallow closet.

Her heart skittered through a few beats. She jammed her heels into the floor. "No," she said, vaguely ashamed of the raspy note of panic in her voice. "No – please."

His palm came down upon her shoulder. "Can't have you stirring up trouble in the meantime, and I ain't got nowhere else to put you."

"I won't cause trouble!" Her voice soared through several octaves, ending on a plaintive wail of distress.

His chuckle burned her ears. "You can say that with a straight face? I got stuff all over the ship I wouldn't want you getting' your hands on." He gave a hard shove to the small of her back, and despite having braced herself, she went flying forward. Her hands hit the wall first, and she steadied herself to turn, but the door slammed shut and what little light there had been guttered out completely. She launched herself at the door just in time to hear the latch click into place.

Dread settled over her like a shroud. The air was musty and stagnant; her chest hitched in a futile effort to draw breath. Her heart pounded, she gasped, and gasped again for air through a throat that felt as if it were caught in a vise. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and panic scrabbled at the back of her mind, struggling for freedom.

 _No!_ Balthier – Balthier would tell her breathe, to just relax and wait for the panic to subside. To concentrate on something else. He would stroke her hair and whisper comforting nonsense and…and just hold her until she collected herself.

She could almost hear his voice: _Breathe, darling. Just breathe, and you'll be fine._

As if compelled by just the echo of his voice in her mind, she drew in a huge gulp of air. The panic receded the tiniest bit. Her lungs burned with the effort, but she established a steady rhythm of breaths, until the sick, queasy feeling settled to a low discomfort, until the terror retracted its icy claws from her shoulders, until her thundering pulse at last slowed and steadied.

The dark pressed in upon her eyes, but as her fear waned, she caught sight of it – the smallest sliver of light peeking beneath the door. It was just enough to concentrate on, to keep her anchored, to keep her brain from drifting aimlessly back into primal terror.

Minutes passed in silence as she knelt, bordered by walls and darkness on all sides, steadfastly resisting the instinctual panic reflex. But each time it threatened, she forced it resolutely back down, concentrating only on her deep, even breaths, on that tiny sliver of light, on the gentle rocking of the ship that told her they were underway.

It took every bit of effort she could manage, but somehow she did it – she had conquered her own fear.

The trip would only be an hour or so. It might feel like an eternity, but she was going to make it through by sheer determination.

And then Jiraj – and Bartaan, and Raen…they would all get what was coming to them.


	28. Chapter 28

Jiraj's ship wasn't nearly as smooth in the air as the _Strahl_ , and the landing was even worse. Penelo didn't know how much of the rough landing to attribute to the ship, and how much to attribute to Jiraj's piloting. She suspected he'd killed the power to the glossair rings too early, and the ship had dropped like a stone for the last few feet, upsetting Penelo's precarious claim to balance and knocking her against the wall, embedding a few splinters into her back.

But she nonetheless relished the pain that the abrupt drop had wrought, for it heralded freedom from the darkness of the closet, from the stifling, musty air within it.

Of course, that very freedom might be short-lasting. Bartaan was hardly going to give her the run of the place.

The _clunk_ of Jiraj's boots on the rusted metal lining the corridor echoed in her ears. Moments later, the closet door opened, and she put up her arms to shield her eyes against the sudden intrusion of light.

Without even waiting for her vision to adjust to the drastic change in lighting, Jiraj seized her bound hands in a punishing grip and dragged her to her feet. She remained standing only by locking her knees; an hour's flight spent kneeling had left her legs devoid of feeling.

As she opened her mouth to speak, pain ricocheted through her jaw. A lingering remnant of the blow he'd dealt her and the fact that her jaw had been clenched throughout the journey, no doubt.

"Jiraj," she said through gritted teeth, "I'm going to give you a friendly warning."

He snorted, unfazed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She worked her jaw, and the pain abated slowly. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here as soon as I could. So get back in your ship and go, and never let me see your face again, because you have no idea what you've gotten yourself involved with."

He made a scathing sound in the back of his throat. "Takes more than an idle threat to shake me," he said.

She shrugged her shoulders, her legs less than steady as he yanked her along behind him down the ramp and off the ship. She squinted in the bright sunlight, peering past the clear, cloudless sky toward the horizon. "Don't say I didn't warn you. There's a storm brewing, and you've just missed your chance to escape it."

* * *

Though the ancient wooden walls muffled most of the sound from the front of the tavern, Balthier was aware that some sort of a disturbance had broken out. Raised voices from the front room echoed down the hall, the tone clearer than the words.

Bartaan was in a fine temper. His voice coalesced into a roar, crashing through the tavern, fairly shaking the walls with its furious timbre. A biting female voice screeched a retort, her voice climbing higher and higher until at last it broke off with the sharp sound of a slap. Balthier went rigid with impotent rage – few things incensed him more than a man using his superior strength against a woman. It was the way of bullies and cowards, weak men whose proclivity for violence made them think they appeared strong.

And yet, there was nothing he could do about it. Bartaan had shortened the chain to keep him confined only to this room. Balthier had broken out of prisons before, but he had never found himself literally tethered to the ground. Short of prying the iron spike from where it was firmly wedged into the floorboards, there he would remain until Penelo and Fran managed to locate him.

In all his life, he had never felt quite so helpless.

Rustling noises from the corridor outside, Bartaan's harsh grumble preceding his footsteps. "I don't like this," he said. "I don't trust the two of them together. I only keep the one chain."

Another male voice: "It's just a couple 'o hours. Just waitin' on the man who's payin' for her. And you'll get your cut out of it, as promised." A rough, impatient sound. "She's tied up; what could she do?"

" _He_ ain't." Bartaan's surly voice was a hiss of displeasure. "And _she_ damn near killed me once before.

A snort. "That's what the rope's for. They won't be goin' anywhere."

A moment later there was the scrape of the latch, and then the door flew open. Bartaan scowled from the doorway, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Though his towering frame blocked most of the corridor from view, another man peeked around him. Jiraj – the man Penelo had argued with in Tarram.

Also, presumably, the son of a bitch who had clocked Balthier over the head just outside the city and carted him back here. The great idiot had no idea of the retribution he had coming to him.

"You're gonna sit quiet-like and let _him –_ " Bartaan snarled, jerking his head towards Jiraj "– tie up your hands."

Balthier conjured up a defiant grin. "Now, why would I do that?"

"She'll suffer for it if you don't." Bartaan edged aside, revealing Jiraj in full. He wore a self-satisfied smirk, and carried an unconscious woman draped over his arms. _Penelo_ – her clothes were covered in dust and sand, her blonde hair an impossible tangle. Her head lolled, but there was the shadow of a bruise on her cheek and a smear of blood on her chin from where her lower lip had split under the impact of a blow.

Balthier's heart leapt into his throat; he struggled to his feet even as his knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of his fear and fury. " _What the devil have you done to her_?" he shouted.

Bartaan shrugged. "She got mouthy. Couldn't have that." He turned to admit Jiraj, who sidled through the doorway to lay Penelo upon the thin pallet.

As Jiraj rose, he pulled a length of coarse, thick rope from the pouch at his waist. "It's just for a while. Thought you both might appreciate the chance to say your goodbyes." He snickered, snapping the rope in his hands. "If you want to see her, you'll do what you're told."

With a muttered oath, Balthier thrust out his hands, clenching his jaw as Jiraj wrapped the rope around his wrists, binding them together so tightly that the rope abraded his skin. The man had at least enough sense to know how to tie a proper knot; Balthier would grant him that much. Attempting to extricate his hands from the rope would only tighten the knot, and the rough rope would bite into his flesh, making the process painful enough to deter him from even trying.

"That good enough for you?" Jiraj said over his shoulder to Bartaan.

Bartaan made an irritable sound in his throat, clearly less than satisfied, but he turned and stomped back down the hall, his heavy steps coaxing a shower of dust loose from the ceiling.

Absent Bartaan's menacing presence, Jiraj skittered out of reach – as if Balthier could have reached for him, with his hands bound as they were. "You ain't got much time," he said. "Better make the most of it."

The moment Jiraj closed the door behind him, Balthier crossed the floor, awkwardly sinking to his knees beside the pallet on the floor. With his hands bound before him, the most he could manage was brushing the tangled strands of her hair that had come loose from her plait away from her face, careful to avoid her swollen cheek.

That Bartaan had struck her hard enough to render her unconscious both enraged and terrified him. But she stirred even beneath the gentle pressure of his fingertips, her brows drawing together and her jaw clenching as the slow return to consciousness brought with it the advent of pain.

He didn't have the wherewithal to compose his features into an expression that might be considered even vaguely reassuring. But her lids fluttered, and her eyes opened at last, her face softening as she focused on his face.

"You're okay." Her voice was rusty-sounding, but tinged with such relief that he knew that she had not yet comprehended the gravity of their situation. She managed a weak smile made somewhat macabre by the blood that smeared her teeth.

She struggled to sit, the task made awkward by her inability to brace herself with her bound hands. As she levered her shoulders from the pallet, he shoved his hands behind her back to help her. "I'm fine," he said gruffly. "But you –"

"I'm fine, too," she said, turning her head to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Bit of a headache. Probably concussed." She shook her head as if to clear it, and flexed her bound hands to test the strength of the bonds. "There's a dagger strapped to my thigh. I need you to get it." She plucked at the drawstring tie of her loose trousers, picking apart the knot and shifting to loosen the waist.

The unexpected statement brought him up short. "What?"

"The dagger. Hurry. Who knows how much time we've got?" She had the presence of mind to keep her voice low, just in case someone might be listening from the corridor. Her head was bent, engrossed in the task of wriggling her trousers free enough to reveal the hidden weapon. With her fingertips she yanked the fabric down, exposing the hilt of the small blade.

Though the rope chafed his wrists as he stretched them the best he was able, he managed to catch the hilt of the dagger between his fingers, drawing it free of the sheath she'd strapped to her thigh. As soon as he'd got it firmly in his grip, she thrust out her bound wrists in offer.

"Just through the knot, if you can manage it," she said. "The rope might come in handy. I don't want to waste it."

His head whirled with a plethora of questions, but he held them long enough to focus his attention on carefully sawing the sharp blade through the knot. Gradually the rope loosened, then fell away entirely. The moment it had, she plucked the dagger from his hands and sliced quickly through the rope binding her feet and his hands.

With trembling fingers she tucked the dagger back into its sheath and readjusted her trousers to conceal it once again. When she lifted her head at last to face him, he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"I thought…I thought…" She swallowed hard, and her face crumpled as she launched herself at him. She landed half in his lap, her arms twined around his neck, pressing her cheek to his. "I thought I would be too late." Her voice broke, and he felt the hot trickle of tears sliding down her face.

 _Too late_? His arms closed around her as he struggled to order her words into some sort of explanation in his mind. It was almost as if…as if she had _planned_ to find herself here. His breath caught in his throat; he seized her shoulders in his hands, drawing her away.

"You _let_ yourself be taken?" It took all of his will to keep his voice low.

She blinked, swiping her fingers over her eyes to brush away the tears. "Of course. It was the best way to find out where he'd taken you."

"Why?" Why would she _deliberately_ place herself in such jeopardy?

"I love you." She sniffled, rubbing desperately at her eyes to staunch the flow of tears that had started right back up again. "I love you, and I'm so sorry I let you think I didn't. And when I realized you'd been captured, I just…" A hiccough shattered her speech; she shook off his hold to press her head to his shoulder. "Everything went cold and dark all at once. And I knew that if I didn't make it in time, if you died…I couldn't live through it."

His right arm slid around her back, the fingers of his left hand curved over the nape of her neck, holding her securely. He focused his gaze over her shoulder at the wall, scored with tick marks, each one representing a day of her imprisonment here in this dank little room. To save him she had risked it once again, willingly placed herself in danger.

She had to have been terrified. And she'd done it anyway. He found himself both honored and humbled by the gesture, even as he wanted to shout at her for taking such a foolish risk. Which he likely would – but now was most certainly not the time.

She shoved away from him with a gasp. "Oh – the chain!" She lifted her hands, sliding pins free from her hair. "I borrowed these from Fran's room," she said. "I don't think she'll mind." She scrambled off his lap, pins clutched in one hand, and with the other she dragged his foot into her lap to bend over the manacle, inspecting the lock.

It took several minutes of work, but she had a light touch, and eventually her diligent efforts were rewarded with the soft _click_ of the locking mechanism disengaging. She slid the lock free, releasing him at last, and rubbed her fingers across the angry red welts that the cuff had carved into his skin, careful to avoid the spots where the metal had gouged his flesh.

"I'm sorry," she said again, her mouth turned down in regret. "I had to spend a bit of time preparing, and I didn't get here quick enough."

She truly _had_ been rattled by his disappearance if she could be so upset by a few minor scrapes. "It's nothing," he said. "At the very worst, I shall add a few new scars to my collection. And we'll match." She managed a half-hearted flutter of laughter at that, making an effort at a weak smile.

He cleared his throat, attempting a severe tone. "You ought not to have come alone," he said.

Her brows rose. "You're _not_ going to chastise me now," she said, dumping his foot out of her lap and climbing to her feet. "We've still got to get out of here." She thrust her hand down her blouse, unwinding a length of fabric from where she had banded it around her chest. " _Later_ , I might let you yell at me, if you still feel inclined."

The cloth had been doubled over and held together with pins to form a makeshift pouch, a hidden pocket concealed beneath her clothing. She released the catch of one pin, slipped it into her pocket, and crouched to pour the contents of the pouch out upon the pallet. It would have been nigh impossible for her to have smuggled in any sort of long-range weaponry, but she had managed a couple of folding blades. Not his preferred weapon, of course – but certainly better than nothing.

As she rooted through the small stash of supplies, he said, "While I can certainly appreciate your foresight, we'd do just as well to wait on Fran. No need to risk a bloody brawl." She'd been knocked around enough; he didn't want to risk her safety any further.

She shook her head absently, sorting the items into neat piles. "They're still hours away, if I had to guess." Collecting a few things, she stretched out her hands to drop them into his. Tiny sachets of fine white powder – a fast-acting sedative – one of the folding blades, and a length of rope. "The bounty was on me, not you – and Bartaan wasn't the one that posted it."

Bafflement chased across his face. He tucked the supplies into his vest pocket and asked, "Then, who…?"

"I don't know. I mean, not for _certain_." She blew out a breath, winced when the action irritated her split lip. Fretfully, she linked her fingers, twisting them before her. "Yulia found the poster this morning in Balfonheim. And shortly before that, she'd received a message from Archades – Raen's gone missing. Slipped his guards and fled Archadia."

He stilled. "You don't think…"

"I think the timing is awfully convenient," she said. "I think he knew we were traveling together, and you'd have to be gotten rid of in order to get to me. He's got reason to be nursing a vendetta against both of us." She hunched her shoulders. "If you were to mysteriously go missing, he could make a claim against your estate based on his relationship with your father's wife, I expect. If he could convince a court of it, his money troubles would be over."

Tension drew his shoulders up tight. "And Bartaan's still expecting some six hundred thousand gil out of _someone_."

Penelo nodded. "He could give me right back over to Bartaan and I'd be trapped here for _years_." She rose once again, raking her fingers through her disordered hair, now loosed from its plait. "We don't have _time_ to wait on Fran – he might be expecting to find _me_ here, but if he finds you here as well, he _will_ kill you. There's nothing to link him to it, and this isn't the sort of place where secrets escape."

Balthier folded his arms over his chest, weighing their options. "It'll be tricky. There's two of them, and we've got precious few weapons."

She shook a sachet of powder, a feral smile creeping across her face. "If we do it right, we won't need weapons at all."

* * *

"This door didn't used to have a latch," Penelo grumbled beneath her breath as she worked a hair pin between the ill-fitting door and the frame. In the scant light that crept through she could see the shadow of the latch – it appeared to be a simple hook and eye, but getting the hair pin beneath it at just the right angle was proving to be a tricky process.

Though it was already early afternoon, there was little noise from the front of the tavern, suggesting that perhaps Bartaan had chased out the customers while he and Jiraj awaited whoever had posted the bounty. But the lack of ambient tavern noises meant they had to work quickly and quietly, lest they draw attention to themselves.

Balthier hovered behind her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She knew he felt useless at the moment, having little to do but to wait for her to free them from the room. The pressure was mounting; there was no telling when their time might run out.

If Raen arrived before they could escape…

No! She shook her head to clear it, but the action only exacerbated her headache. The pin slipped, falling short of the mark. She heaved an aggrieved sigh and withdrew the pin, clasping one hand to the nape of her neck to massage away the tight muscles there.

Balthier's hand squeezed her shoulder. "Darling, you must relax. Worry produces nothing but stress. Let it go, take a deep breath, and try again."

She ducked her head, trying to shake the fear, and managed at last to even out her breathing. Her hands were steadier this time; she shoved the pin through the gap, slipped it up and beneath, and at last felt the slight pressure of the latch against it. Her breath caught – she eased the latch up, heard the soft _hiss_ of metal sliding against metal, and finally it slipped free of its closure.

Penelo swallowed down the cry of elation that scraped at her throat. "I did it," she said. "The door's unlocked!"

Balthier caught her hand before she could reach for the door handle. "Hold a moment," he said. "Let me handle them – you've shouldered enough of the risk already." His eyes lingered upon the bruise high on her cheek, the smear of dried blood on her chin that she'd failed to fully clean away.

She shook her head. "It's got to be me," she said. "I was here for three years; I know which floorboards creak. I know how far the door can open before the hinges squeak. If you go, we'll be caught in moments."

She was right. She was right, and he knew it. Still, it didn't mean he was in any way comfortable with the prospect.

She must have read his hesitation in his face – she squeezed his fingers in hers, offered a tentative smile. "Now it's _your_ turn to let it go and take a deep breath. I'll be okay."

"You'd _better_ be." He threaded the fingers of his free hand through her hair, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "I've not yet been afforded the opportunity to yell at you."

"I only said I _might_ let you," she reminded him tartly. But she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and took a deep, steadying breath. "All right. Wish me luck."

"With skill like yours, you've no need for anything so fickle as luck." His grip tightened for a moment, as though he were memorizing the feel of her with the tips of his fingers. At last he released her with a rough, resigned sigh. "Go," he said. "And come back safely."

* * *

Silence reigned throughout the tavern. She held a handful of powder poured from one of the sachets into her palm, but she would have to get close enough to use it, and the tavern was a tangle of chairs and tables all mashed together in no particular order – it would be impossible to wend her way through them without being seen.

She lingered in the shadows cloaking the corridor, caught between the necessity to scope out the locations of her adversaries and the fear that a single step forward would draw unwanted attention. Balthier was waiting within the room she had left, no doubt frantic with worry – but he trusted her. He had faith in her competency; he was no Vaan to come charging in, heedless of the risk.

And now she had only to live up to his faith in her.

Chair legs scraped across the rough wooden floor, the high screech like fire to her senses. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end. She knew by the heavy _thump_ of boots upon the floor that the person moving about was Bartaan – she'd grown accustomed to the distinctive sound of his boots stomping up and down the corridor over the past three years; she would recognize it anywhere.

"If I've closed down my tavern for naught…" Bartaan said in a menacing growl. He was moving toward the bar; he'd cross before the corridor in moments, and no doubt see her lingering there.

"I'm telling you, he'll be here," Jiraj snapped back, and Penelo breathed a silent sigh of relief. His voice had come from across the tavern; if she kept her back to the wall, she could remain out of his sight.

She hugged the wall, sliding down the corridor, and raised her hand, palm up to expose the powder. Two more steps, and Bartaan would be within range. The moment his boots came into view, she blew across her palm, scattering the powder through the air – straight into his face.

He never had a chance to make a sound; his face went slack, his eyelids drooping. A half-second later, he crashed to the floor.

Penelo was already skittering back down the hallway as she heard Jiraj's baffled exclamation, followed by his rapid footsteps as he approached Bartaan's sprawled body.

"I got Bartaan," Penelo whispered to Balthier as she slipped back into the room. "But Jiraj –"

Balthier seized her in his arms, crushing her to his chest for a moment, and she could feel in that fierce embrace exactly how concerned he had been. "Leave him to me," he said. "You've done enough already." His voice was rough, ragged with worry – and she didn't want to put him through more of it.

There were slow steps coming down the corridor; Balthier maneuvered her back against the wall behind the door, where she would be out of sight when the door opened. He fisted a sachet of powder in his hand, standing at the ready near the door, his back pressed to the wall.

There was the sound of a gun cocking; Jiraj might be a bit slow on the uptake, but even he could not have failed to miss the fact that the door that ought to have been locked _wasn't_. The door handle squeaked as he turned it, and the door opened a crack. Jiraj lead with his weapon, squeezing the barrel of the gun through the crack as he peered into the room above it.

From his limited vantage point, the room would appear to be empty. He eased the door open just a shade more, poking his head through, and Balthier found his opening. He cast the sachet of powder into Jiraj's face. In his surprise, Jiraj had only enough time to squeeze off one shot, which went wide and lodged itself harmlessly into the far wall. He collapsed against the door, flinging it wide open on his descent to the floor.

Penelo squeezed out from behind the door to find Balthier in the process of rolling Jiraj to his back and knotting his hands together with a length of rope. She collected Jiraj's pistol from where it had fallen and tucked it into the waistband of her trousers.

"I'll manage them," Balthier said. "If you might track down my pistols in the meantime…"

She nodded her assent, stepping over Jiraj's prone form to exit the room. She ought to have been thrilled. She'd found Balthier alive; they'd successfully liberated themselves. They had only to leave, to alert Fran of their escape and reconvene with the _Galbana_ elsewhere. So why did her stomach still churn with anxiety?

Because Raen was coming.

Her breath hitched in her throat – Raen was coming, and he would never _stop_ coming.

They had bought themselves only a temporary freedom. As long as Raen was free, he would always be the shadow dogging their steps, and they would spend their time constantly looking over their shoulders, wondering when the other shoe would drop.

It wasn't enough to escape him. He had to be taken out for good.


	29. Chapter 29

Penelo drew in a swift breath as Balthier swabbed at her split lip with a clean, wet cloth. She twisted her fingers in her lap in an effort not to wince from the pain. Balthier's features were arranged in a scowl so fierce that she was amazed at the careful pressure of his hand cupping her chin, the delicacy with which he handled the cloth, the deliberate lightness of the strokes as he staunched the thin trickle of blood.

"I should have burned this godsforsaken place to the ground when first I had the chance," he snarled through gritted teeth.

"Don't be ridiculous," she mumbled, drawing back to escape his relentless prodding with the cloth. "That's enough; it stings."

"Of course it stings; Bartaan split your lip."

"Actually, that was Jiraj. Bartaan only knocked me unconscious," she said inanely, and regretted it when she saw the sharp flare of ire in his eyes. "Now, Balthier…"

"Oh, no," he said. "They've earned what they've got coming to them, and I'll not be swayed from retribution this time around." He thrust a glass into her hand, curling her fingers around it. "Drink this."

She sniffed the liquid in the glass, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "It's a bit early for whiskey."

"It's for medicinal purposes. Bartaan's first-aid supplies consist solely of bandages – the whiskey will disinfect the wound." He sponged at her cheek, scrubbing away the last remnants of the sand and dirt that clung to her skin. The removal of the grime only highlighted the beginnings of the bruise that shadowed her cheekbone and receded into her hairline. Bartaan had struck her hard enough to leave a massive mark in the imprint of his hand – she'd look like she'd come out the wrong side of a bar brawl for a few weeks at the least.

Penelo dutifully lifted the glass and swallowed down a mouthful, choking as the whiskey seared her rent flesh. "Good gods – that _hurt_."

There was a thump from down the hall, followed by muffled sounds of rage. Penelo's brows rose in surprise.

"Well, I could hardly have them yelling the place down, now, could I?" Balthier said by way of explanation. "It might attract unwanted attention."

"So you gagged them."

"Mmm." Balthier plopped the wet cloth down on the table. "I used discarded socks that I discovered in Bartaan's room. I'd wager he hasn't bothered to do his laundry in weeks."

Despite the pain it caused, Penelo was helpless to smother the laugh that rose in her throat. "No wonder they're furious."

"I'd imagine they're also not particularly pleased to find their situations reversed with ours." He cleared his throat. "I appreciate your timely rescue," he said.

Abashed, she ducked her head. "You would have done the same."

He collected her hands in his, linking their fingers. "Of course. But you're _never_ to do it again."

She heaved a sigh, canting her head to one side, and asked, "Are we going to fight now?"

"No. No, I simply want your agreement that you'll wait for reinforcements before you go charging in." His voice came out a little more exasperated than he had intended, and for the first time she realized exactly how terrified he must've been to see her brought in by Jiraj.

"I'll wait for reinforcements," she said. "If there's time."

His fingers tightened on hers. "Penelo –"

"You ought to know by now that I don't take well to being ordered about," she said. "How could you expect me to stand back and _let_ something happen to you? Something I might be able to prevent? _You_ wouldn't do it."

"It's different. I would rather know that you are safe. I've years more experience to my credit than you have –"

"And I _still_ managed to get us free," she reminded him. " _I_ would rather not sit on my hands and do nothing. I need to be useful. I need to know that I've done everything possible – especially if it's _my_ fault you were taken in the first place."

He slipped free one hand to smooth her tangled hair away from her face, then cupped the back of her head, drawing her close to touch his forehead to hers. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "Asraen's got more reason to come after me than you. Our traveling together simply made it easier to target the both of us." His lips brushed her cheek, careful to avoid the bruise. "I love you," he said. "I never want you to sacrifice your safety for mine."

It was one thing to hear it from Fran, but another thing entirely to hear it from _him_. Her throat clogged with emotion, and she blinked back a sudden wash of tears. Raen had said those very words to her on more occasions than she could count, but she'd never realized just how false they had sounded until there was something honest to compare them against.

She drew in a shuddering breath and sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "Well, then," she said, clearing her throat to dislodge the lump that had formed there. "You'll have to make sure not to get yourself captured again, because I'll always come rescue you, even if you wouldn't want me to. It's probably for the best if we stick together. Less likely to be taken that way."

He managed a rough approximation of a chuckle. "I suppose I should take that to mean that you intend to make this, er…not quite so temporary an arrangement?"

She nodded. "I've still got some issues, I know –"

"Darling, who hasn't? We'll get through them," he said, his voice full of indulgent affection. He heaved a sigh, and said, "I suppose we'd best find a way to get a message to Fran. While we might not need a rescue, we'll certainly require a ride back to the _Strahl_."

"Jiraj's got an airship, and it might have a communications system," she said. "But we can't go – not while Raen's still out there. We've got to do something about him; he can't go free, not after all the havoc he's caused. And he won't stop chasing us down if he thinks there's something to gain from it."

Balthier paused to mull it over. "It's possible we could turn this around on him," he said. "He'll be sticking with more pedestrian means of travel and off the beaten path, I would think – the larger the city he travels through, the greater the possibility that someone will remember seeing him. It would explain the delay, and reduces the likelihood that he'll be bringing his own reinforcements with him."

Penelo pushed one of Balthier's weapons across the table toward him. "You've got your guns back, and you're a better shot than he is," she said. "We could stake out the tavern and take him by surprise. He must've planned to come here and wait for someone to bring us in – and since he posted the mark anonymously, there's no way for anyone to contact him."

Balthier's gaze darted down the hallway, to the door within which Bartaan and Jiraj had been locked. "And therefore no way to inform him that we've thrown a wrench into their plans."

"For all he knows, he's about to get exactly what he wanted," Penelo said. "We could take advantage of that. Use his arrogance against him, and get the drop on him."

"It's _still_ risky," Balthier said. "We can't be certain that he's coming alone. And I don't want you in the line of fire."

"That's a shame, as I've got no intention of waiting patiently while you go it alone," Penelo snapped back. "For the gods' sakes, Balthier – we've been through worse and come through all right. In the jungle –"

"Venturing into the jungle was a mistake, and my arrogance in even attempting it very nearly got the both of us killed," he said, heaving a sigh and pressing his fingers to his forehead to rub away the frown lines that etched his skin.

"Balthier," she said gently, "I won't be shunted off to safety, even if you think it's for my own protection. That's just a different sort of prison."

He wanted to argue; she could see it in the thin line of his lips, in the way his cheeks hollowed as if to hold back a rejoinder. He was a man at war with two conflicting desires – the primal need to keep her safe, and his commitment to providing her the choices she had previously been denied.

When at last he deigned to speak, his voice came out a guttural growl. "We will need to take every possible precaution," he said. "And take no undue risks."

Good enough. "I'll see if I can get a message to Fran," she said. "You ought to check on our captors-turned-prisoners, and make sure their bonds are holding. Jiraj is mostly useless, but Bartaan – he's smarter than he looks. I don't trust him, even tied up."

Balther tapped his pocket. "Fortunately, you were clever enough to bring several more sachets of sedative than we required. If they're causing too much trouble, I'll simply dose them again." He paused reflectively. "Though not, I think, before I give them a taste of their own cruelty. I've recently discovered that, in addition to chains, Bartaan has a fondness for starvation."

Penelo tried to mask it, but he caught the brief hint of a flinch at the words, her eyes shifting away from his. Fury surged to life once more; coursing through his blood like fire – if it had been a single occurrence, it would surely not have elicited such a reaction.

"How often?" he asked, curling his fingers into a fist to prevent them from reaching for the pistol laid upon the table.

She shrugged noncommittally. "Every so often, I guess. When there was a bad night, when I'd broken something, when I mouthed off."

"How often is _every so often_?" It was impossible, given the circumstances, to erase the threat of impending violence from the tone of his voice. If he had to hazard a guess, he suspected she knew he was but one unfortunate revelation from doing murder, and thus her reluctance to discuss it.

She lifted her chin defiantly, but spoke in a rush: "It's not important anymore. I really need to go – Fran's probably sick with worry." She edged toward the door.

He caught at her wrist. "Fran's never been sick with worry in her life; she's at her best under pressure. _Tell_ me."

"No! I'm not going to give you an excuse to kill anyone!"

"They _deserve_ to be punished."

"Yes," she said. "But death is _easy_. They _deserve_ to languish in prison, suffering the same walls day in and day out for years. Justice isn't served in killing them; it's in _parity_."

His grip loosened. She was not quite so softhearted as he had been inclined to believe. And yet, he didn't believe it was only vindictiveness that drove her. She had always had a bit of a justice complex. She might turn her cheek to a slight against herself, but she would ruthlessly punish any evil or injustice that had the chance of touching someone else. These two she had judged a danger to society as a whole, and she would see them punished in the same measure as they had intended for her.

She stared him down, her chin tilted at a pugnacious angle. Quite possibly they hadn't the time to bicker amongst themselves as to what constituted excessive retribution. She had a message to relay to Fran, and he – he had a bit of punishment to mete out. Though perhaps not as much as he would have preferred.

With no small amount of effort, he shook free of the fury that had gripped him fast in its clutches. Though it simmered still just beneath the surface, it remained checked enough to allay her concern; she relaxed her tense posture, settling back onto the flats of her feet and unclenching her hands. "Go," he said. "I won't kill them." _More's the pity._ "However, they _did_ strike you _._ I'd wager that deserves a bit of retribution."

Her fingers touched her split lip, stifling a wince at the pain evoked by even the faintest brush. She heaved a breezy sigh and waved a hand dismissively. "If you must…"

"Oh, I must. But I shall endeavor to do no lasting damage." He caught up one of his pistols and pressed it into her hand. "Take it with you and be careful. Don't let yourself be caught unaware. Give a shout if you notice anything amiss."

"I will." She engaged the safety mechanism and tucked the pistol into her waistband. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Take that into account when you're _checking_ on Bartaan and Jiraj."

* * *

Jiraj must've figured that no one would even consider stealing his deathtrap of a ship. The codes she needed to start the engines were scrawled upon a scrap of parchment laid upon the dash. The ship sputtered, wheezed, and hissed with the effort to start the engines, and the whole thing shuddered as if it were in its death throes. Penelo wasn't altogether certain that it wasn't – and if it _did_ decide to kick off, it could very well take her with it.

The communications system was ancient and confusing. Rather than simply typing in the frequency code, there was a series of gears to be aligned into the correct sequence, after which there came a high-pitched shrill over the intercom, which she assumed was the sound of the communications system attempting a connection.

Within moments, there was a burst of static, and Fran's voice cracked forth like a whip, more irritable than she'd ever heard it, as if the time wasted in answering calls from unknown frequencies were more of an annoyance than she was willing to tolerate. "State your purpose."

"Fran, it's me. Penelo."

There was a gusty sigh. "Are you well? Is Balthier –"

"Fine. We're both fine. We turned the tables on our captors; they're trussed up and locked away for the time being." She hesitated. "Raen has yet to turn up. Are you still on your way? We might have need of you."

"Of course we're still on our way." There was a hint of a snap to her tone, as if the very question were insulting. "And we've called for reinforcements besides. Your captors, they are Rozarrian nationals?"

"Yes, I think so. At the very least, it's where they reside. How long do you suppose it'll take you to reach the tavern?"

"Roughly two hours, should the winds remain favorable." Fran made a rough sound in her throat. "What were you thinking? Such a foolish scheme – I hadn't expected that sort of recklessness from _you_."

"It worked, didn't it?" She couldn't quite keep the sullen tone from her voice; generally _Vaan_ was on the receiving end of Fran's lectures. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. I did what had to be done."

"I suppose Balthier was furious."

"Bit of an understatement." Although that anger had been stoked by his fear. She suspected the only reason he had yet to shout at her was because they currently lacked the time for a proper tirade. There were far more important things that required their attention.

"Are you armed?"

"Mm. We've got Balthier's pistols and a couple of daggers between us. Unless Raen brings an army along with him, we ought to be fine. Still, I'm not comfortable flying Jiraj's rust bucket back to Tarram, and we've got to find a way to make certain that he and Bartaan stay locked up for a very long time." But how to manage that? Any authorities in the area were unlikely to toss them in prison simply on her word that they'd committed a crime.

"I think we've got a solution for that, but I will need the line to cement the details. In the meantime, be safe and wait for us," Fran said.

"We'll be as safe as we can be," Penelo sighed. "I just want this to be over."

"One way or another," Fran said, "it _will_ be."

* * *

They heard Ashe before they saw her.

To her best recollection, Penelo had never heard such a strident tone issuing forth from Ashe's mouth, but it was clear that the generally composed queen was in a high dudgeon, as her voice sailed clear through the walls of the tavern to reach them from outside.

"I want them, and I mean to have them. It matters not to which country they claim citizenship; they have trespassed against one of my own, and I will not stand for it!" The door of the tavern cracked open as Ashe's booted foot slammed against it, and a cloud of dust burst forth, floating in the still air. Ashe stormed through the doorway, followed by a contingent Dalmascan soldiers. On their heels followed Al-Cid Margrace, brushing the dust from his clothing.

Penelo scrambled to her feet, dropping the wet cloth she had been using to blot away the blood from Balthier's knuckles, which had been scraped raw from the pummeling he had unleashed upon their captors-turned-captives.

" _Ashe_?" Penelo gasped. "What –"

Ashe's voice softened. "Fran called in the cavalry. That would be me. Larsa's on his way as well." She crossed the room to draw Penelo into a hug. "Not to worry. Those miscreants will never see the light of day again; they'll rot in my dungeon for the remainder of their days."

Al-Cid said, "We've yet to come to terms in that regard, your majesty."

Rounding on him, Ashe hissed, "If you wish to forge a more agreeable trade agreement between Dalmasca and Rozarria, you will give them to me. Or are you prepared to make a sacrifice of that magnitude for a pair of unrepentant criminals?"

"Oh, I think you'll find that they're at least a smidge repentant now," Balthier drawled, flexing his ruined knuckles.

Ashe's brows rose toward her hairline. "Good gods, Balthier – what did you _do_?"

With a perfectly expressionless face, Balthier replied, "They ran straight into my fists. With their faces. And their ribs. Repeatedly. They yet breathe – it is just that it takes them a great deal more effort to do so."

Al-Cid cleared his throat, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. "I would hear the charges laid against them."

"Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Slavery." Balthier gestured to Penelo, to her split lip and the bruise forming on her cheek. "Assault _._ "

Al-Cid let out a breath and sank into a chair. "I think perhaps we can come to an arrangement," he said. "I am given to understand that these two Rozarrian citizens, they undertook these actions at the behest of another?"

Ashe gave a sharp nod. "Yes; an Arcadian citizen – one whom Lord Larsa has already agreed to surrender into my custody."

Al-Cid spread his hands out in entreaty. "But should not the instigator bear the brunt of the punishment? Is it needful to punish the underlings so severely?"

Penelo drew a harsh breath. "The _underlings_ are just as culpable," she said. "Bartaan kept me captive here for three years, serving against a debt that wasn't mine to pay…and Jiraj would have delivered me right back into it."

Al-Cid's brow furrowed. "These names are known to me," he said. "Both are wanted men in Rozarria." He turned to Ashe. "They owe a debt to Rozarria in penance for their crimes, but I am not prepared to sacrifice trade negotiations on behalf of two known criminals simply to retain the right to imprison them here. Perhaps their penance is just as well served in Dalmasca as in Rozarria."

"I should say so," Ashe said with a sharp nod. "Now, let us put pen to promise." She gestured to a guard, who produced a leather satchel, from which she drew an inkwell, a pen, and parchment paper. Together, she and Al-Cid began to outline a contract to solidify their bargain.

And fifteen minutes later, as the cadre of soldiers hauled Bartaan and Jiraj from the tavern to Ashe's airship, Penelo fluttered her fingers at a scowling, bloodied Jiraj and said, "I _did_ warn you."

* * *

An hour later, just as Penelo was laying out a simple meal of stew and bread that she'd cobbled together from supplies pilfered from Bartaan's stores – considering he would have no need of them ever again – Fran and Vaan walked through the door.

Vaan made a beeline for the table, snatching up a bowl and a hunk of bread. "I'm starved," he said by way of greeting, cramming half the bread in his mouth. "We've been flying all day."

Fran gave a subtle shake of her head in exasperation. "What news?" she asked, taking a seat across from Ashe.

"We yet await our primary conspirator," Ashe said. "Bartaan and Jiraj have already been surrendered into my custody and are being held on my ship for transport back to Dalmasca."

Larsa, who had arrived shortly after Ashe, with Basch in tow, said, "But where is Yulia?"

"I'm here, sir!" Yulia's cheerful voice sailed in from outside.

Vaan rolled his eyes. "She's climbed up onto the roof," he said. "Says it's a good vantage point." He circled his finger at his temple, indicating his impression of Yulia's sanity.

"She's correct," Fran said. "Would that you were half so dedicated."

"I'm _hungry_ ," Vaan groaned. "I'll be dedicated again after I've eaten."

Penelo smothered a laugh as she slid back into her chair beside Balthier, having passed out the last of the bowls and spoons to the soldiers who waited at nearby tables. "This feels like a reunion," she whispered to him. "The circumstances are less than ideal, but…I think it's nice."

Beneath the table, he caught her hand in his. "It's been a handful of years already – and yet we settle straight back into the same banter as before. Once again, it's the six of us banding together."

Penelo coughed into her fist. "Er, a _bit_ more than six," she said. "There's Larsa and Yulia – not to mention some _twenty_ soldiers between Ashe and Larsa." She shifted in her chair. "Probably a few more _reinforcements_ than were strictly necessary."

Balthier chuckled. "I would remind you that Asraen recently said that women were wont to exaggerate their own importance. I believe I shall very much enjoy seeing the expression on his face when he comes to understand the error of his opinion. He has _no_ idea what he will be walking into."

* * *

Afternoon wore into evening, and Penelo found herself almost surprised at how pleasant the day had turned out, considering how miserably it had begun. Bartaan's liquor flowed freely, and the last several hours had been spent in jovial conversation, reminiscing and catching up on each other's lives, considering that the last five years had taken all of them in drastically different directions.

Penelo had grown so accustomed to merely surviving from one day to the next that she had forgotten what it was like to have friends – friends that would, and _had_ , come running from all corners of Ivalice at a moment's notice had she need of them, no matter how much time had passed since last they'd met. Powerful friends – friends who would go to extreme lengths to protect her, just as she would them.

She had let Raen take them from her once. She had become a victim of her own naïveté, and for that she had spent three years friendless and lonely, a drudge tucked away in an isolated tavern.

Balthier had rescued her from that. He had given her back her life, and offered to share his with her. He had been responsible for every bit of happiness she now enjoyed, and somehow she just knew that they'd barely scratched the surface of it. Five years ago, she would never have thought that she would fall in love with _Balthier_ , of all people – but she was certain now that he would never make her regret it.

Ashe sighed over her tankard of ale. "I do wish this Asraen would hurry himself along," she said. "I think I'd rather not spend the night in this tavern – it doesn't seem sanitary."

There was a _thump_ outside as Yulia scrambled off the roof and through the doorway. "Speak of the devil and he appears," she said. "I'm quite certain that's him just down the path. He walked _right past_ two royal airships with nary a second glance! Can you imagine?" She gave a gleeful giggle, sliding to the side to position herself against the wall near the door.

"Was he alone?" Balthier asked, rising to his feet and plucking a pistol from its holster.

"Quite alone," she said. "More fool, him."

Within seconds, more than a dozen weapons were trained on the doorway, the merry atmosphere that had only moments ago pervaded the tavern fading to tense silence as they awaited their newest arrival.

At first there was only the sweep of the wind across the roof of the tavern. Then came the groan of the planks comprising the steps, heralding the footsteps that paused just outside the door.

At last the door flew open to reveal Raen – dirty, unshaven, his once-fine clothing stained with the sweat and dust of his travels. It took half a second for him to realize exactly what he had walked into; his face went slack with surprise, mouth hanging open in mute horror and astonishment.

"Why, Asraen," Balthier sneered, leveling his pistol at Raen's head. "What a surprise. _So_ glad you could join us."

Asraen's jaw worked desperately, and he stammered through an attempt at speech, his eyes flitting from Balthier to Penelo to Larsa as his face leeched of color. "H-h-how –"

"We're resourceful," Balthier said. "Better men than you have tried – and failed – to best us. You were doomed to failure from the start."

Larsa rose from the table, scowling in disdain. "I leave him in your hands, Ashe. Do with him as you will."

"Oh, I intend to. He's going to rot in my dungeon with the others," she replied, gesturing to the guards, who began to close the distance.

Raen gave a cry of distress, turning to flee – only to find himself facing Yulia, who aimed her pistol directly in his face.

" _Do_ try it," she said, the venom in her eyes belying her sweet tone of voice. "My divorce has yet to come through. I'd be just as happy to make myself a widow."

In a manner of seconds, Raen was apprehended by a set of guards, frisked for possible weapons, and shackled securely. Though he struggled against their hold, it took only two of them to lift him straight off his feet and carry him bodily out the door.

"Pity," Balthier mused, "I should have liked to rough him up a little. If anyone deserves a beating, it's him."

"You've done quite enough damage to your hands already," Ashe said. "It's a wonder you're even able to hold a weapon."

Penelo sank back in her chair with a sigh, dizzy with relief, brushing her mussed hair away from her face. "It's over," she said, exhaustion settling heavily upon her shoulders. "Thank you – thank you all."

"Penelo," Ashe said fondly, " _Of course_. We will always come if you have need of us. You have only to ask. Whatever happens, however much time may pass, we will always be able to rely on one another. We've been through too much together _not_ to." She reached out to squeeze Penelo's shoulder as she rose from her chair. "I _would_ enjoy a visit from time to time. One does weary of toadying nobles, you know."

"And I would appreciate a letter now and then," Larsa said. "I've quite missed them."

"Maybe we could manage a collaboration one of these days," Vaan suggested. "Lemurés is still mostly unexplored, and –"

Balthier groaned, cutting off Vaan's proposal. "That's quite enough nagging for the moment, I think," he said. "I'm certain that in between other adventures there will be time for visits and letters and collaborations." He held out his hand to Penelo. "But for now, it's time to go home."


	30. Chapter 30

_Future Perfect  
_  
 _Two years later_  
 _Somewhere above the Paramina Rift_

It was the silence that woke her.

Penelo jackknifed up from a sound sleep with the fear-inducing certainty that something was terribly wrong. Mounting dread sent an icy shiver skittering down her back as she shoved herself to the side of the bed, her shaking fingers unerringly finding the rim of the cradle even in the near-perfect darkness. The thin mattress within was cool to the touch, and empty.

 _Empty_.

Panic clawed at her throat. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she opened her mouth to scream for Balthier. But before the sound could escape, there was a gurgle of delighted laughter than ended on a piercing screech. Following on its heels was the gentle rumble of Balthier's muffled voice.

Her racing pulse slowed; she let out a long breath in pure relief, the tension draining away as she shoved away the tangled sheets and climbed out of bed. Even exhausted as she so frequently was these days, she could not resist the impulse to discover just what her two favorite men were up to this time of night.

The door slid open silently at the pressure of her fingertips. Light spilled from the deck into the corridor, and as she crept towards the deck, she could see Balthier's bare feet propped upon the navigation console as he stretched out in his chair.

"Now, now, my lad," he soothed as the baby cradled in his arms fretted. "You've been running your poor mama ragged lately. I know you've got a fine set of lungs, but she'll surely come running if you use them, and we really ought to let her sleep just a bit longer."

Penelo smothered a laugh in her palm, leaning against the entryway to observe them. Their son's tiny fists flailed in the air, and his face scrunched up into a pout. It was true that he had a fine set of lungs; his predilection for using them at any and every opportunity had sent Fran fleeing to seek refuge aboard the _Galbana_ with Vaan and Yulia. She'd stoically endured weeks of the colicky infant's constant screams, going around with cotton stuffed in her sensitive ears before she'd at last given up the fight and sworn she would not return until he learned to modulate his voice, which currently seemed to have only one volume – ear-splitting.

Balthier bounced their son gently until his fractious expression eased into quiet curiosity. Gradually he ceased his flailing, lowering his fists to curl them beneath his chin as he made soft cooing sounds of contentment.

"There's my boy," Balthier crooned, shifting the child in his arms to free one hand, and smoothing the downy shock of tousled blonde hair atop their son's head. "I suppose Mama's much better at this than I am, isn't she? At the very least she makes a much more comfortable pillow, I'm sure – she's certainly softer."

The baby giggled, dimples shining in both cheeks as he gave a wide, toothless grin as if in agreement of Balthier's assessment.

"You've got so much of your mama in you," Balthier said. "That unruly hair is all hers. But your eyes – those, I think, will turn out to be mine."

Penelo smiled; she was certain they would. They had been, like most infants, bright blue at birth – but they had lately begun that subtle shifting of hues, acquiring a bit more of Balthier's own glint of mischief day by day as they turned inexorably towards that devastating green.

"Shall we have a story, then?" Balthier inquired of the baby, who blinked up at him with wide eyes, entranced by the sound of his father's voice. "Mind you, your mama's the storyteller in this family. You'll have to forgive me if I bungle it; I've not had the practice she has."

An answering gurgle was his response; he tapped the baby's nose with his fingertip and received a laugh for his trouble. "But then, perhaps you're too young yet to mind either way. I only hope to improve before you've grown enough to recognize your papa's shortcomings."

He cleared his throat and readjusted, stretching out to reposition his son to lay against his chest, holding him securely and rubbing his back in slow circles. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess locked away in an ivory tower." A heartbeat's hesitation before he amended, "Well, perhaps it was neither ivory nor tower, but you're young yet, so I'll spare you the unsavory details. And perhaps she wasn't _precisely_ a princess, but she had the heart of one – and she was very, very beautiful. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The baby cooed and rubbed his cheek against Balthier's chest as his squirming body went lax to the soothing cadence of Balthier's voice.

"Our beloved princess was in dire straits, and in desperate need of rescue. And I'm sure your mama has told you enough fairy stories by now for you to know that, generally, the princess in need of rescue gets a handsome prince." He heaved a sigh. "Alas, our princess had to settle for a pirate."

This time, Penelo could not quite muffle her laugh. The sound caught Balthier's attention, and his head swiveled towards her.

"You ought to be in bed," he said with a sheepish grin, a bit embarrassed to have been caught practicing his subpar storytelling. "We were trying to let you sleep."

"I woke up and you were both gone," she said. "I got curious. You sounded like you were up to something."

"We were," he said. "Man-to-man bonding. A touch ruined now that he's decided to doze off once again. I suppose I should be grateful that, if nothing else, I've a talent for putting him to sleep with my storytelling." He braced the baby against his chest, rising carefully from his chair to as not to disturb him. "Milo's learning to mind his manners and give his mama a bit of a respite every now and then."

Penelo snickered. "I appreciate the sentiment. But I think it's bedtime for all of us." She touched his shoulder as he neared, and rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek. "Besides, I sleep better when you're there."

"You'll sleep even better when we're back in Archades and we can hire a proper nanny for him," Balthier said as he ushered her back up the corridor. "You're running yourself into the ground."

"He won't be this small for long," she said. "I want to spend all the time I can with him."

"And you'll enjoy it all the more when you're well-rested. At this point, _you_ need you naps just as badly as _he_ does – you nodded off in the middle of dinner tonight. It'll be better for both of you if you have just a little help. Maybe for a few hours in the afternoon, so that you can get some rest in before he caterwauls the night through." He carefully pried the snoozing infant from his chest and laid him in Penelo's waiting arms.

Balthier climbed back into bed as Penelo brushed a kiss to their son's forehead and settled him back in his cradle. Milo squirmed a bit as his back touched the cool mattress, his mouth twisting into a pout and his lower lip quivering in preparation for a wail. But Penelo gave the cradle a gentle push, and it began a slow and steady rocking rhythm, and his fretting subsided marginally. A gentle tap to the wind chimes that hung above the cradle set off a soft cascade of sweet musical notes, and within moments, he'd nodded off to the sound.

Penelo climbed into bed beside Balthier, sighing as she tucked her head against his shoulder and draped her arm over his chest. "How does it end?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Your story. The one you were telling Milo. How does it end?"

"Ah." His fingers threaded through her hair, combing out the tangles. He laid his free hand over hers, flattening over his chest. "Like all the best ones do, darling. With happily ever after."


End file.
